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PREFACE 

BY    THE    AUTHORS    WIDOW, 


Most  of  the  events  rciated  in  this  book 
were  actual  incidents  in  the  life  or  within 
the  experience  of  the  author. 

ELIZABETH    REID. 
London,  1888. 


MI2545 


CONTENTS. 


<KArra 

FAGl 

I. 

The  Isle  of  Teacb    . 

.        .       .       • 

II. 

A  Brace  of  Naiads  . 

8 

III. 

The  Two  Poetasters 

.      13 

IV. 

"Help?  Kelp!"  . 

.       18 

V. 

The  Scathed  Retriever 

.      24 

VI. 

A  Loving  Couple 

.      28 

VII. 

4  Dutiful  Daughter 

■      36 

VIII. 

A  Nobleman  Incog.  .       , 

4i 

IX. 

Avant  le  Bal     .              , 

46 

X. 

A  Previous  Engagemeni 

■       50 

XI. 

Ball-Room  Emotions 

■       56 

XII. 

"Apres  le  Bal*. 

6c 

XIII. 

Challenging  the  Challenger 

67 

XIV. 

A  Request  for  a  Quick  Fight 

75 

XV. 

A  Parting  Glance    . 

81 

XVI. 

A  Safe  Challenge    . 

86 

XVII. 
XVIII 

"The  Coward!". 

Down  with  the  Despots. 

9i 
94 

XIX. 

Blanche  and  Sabina 

IOI 

XX. 

"The  Wondering  Eves". 

lot 

vi  Contents. 


PAGS 


CHAPTBS 

XXI.  A  Short-lived  Triumph 115* 

XXII.  The  Conspiracy  of  Crowns      .       .       .       .115 

XXIII.  The  Programme  of  the  Great  Powers        .    119 

XXIV.  A  Treacherous  Staging    .        •       •       .       .125 
XXV.  The  Fifth  Avenue  House        .       .       .       .    131 

XXVI.  Eljen  Kossuth! 136 

XXVII.  The  Broken  Swords .140 

XXVIII.  A  Tour  in  Search  of  a  Title        ...    144 

XXIX.  The  Lost  Lord .    149 

XXX.  Inside  the  Tujleries 156 

XXXI.  In  the  Hotel  de  Louvre.       •       .       .       .161 

XXXI I.  On  the  Boulevards 165 

XXXIII.  A  Nation's  Murder    .        .        •       •       •       .172 

XXXIV.  "I'll  Come  to  You  1» 176 

XXXV.  To  the  Prison .181 

XXXVI.  To  the  Embassy 185 

XXXVII.  Death  upon  the  Drum-Head  .       .       .       .188 

XXXVIII.  The  Two  Flags 192 

XXXIX.  Once  more  in  Westbourne      .       .       ,       .197 

XL.  A  Cautious  Baronet  ......    202 

XLI.  A  Scene  in  Park  Lane 207 

XLII.  The  Power  of  a  Pretty  Face         .       .       .    209 

XLIII.  To  the  Country.        .       .       .        .       .       .212 

XLIV.  At  the  Meet        .......    216 

XLV.  In  the  Cover        .......    219 

XLVI.  A  Recreant  Sportsman     .       •       •       .       .    223 


Contents.  vii 

CHAPTBK  PAGE 

CLVII.  Just  Fifteen    .       .       ,       .              .       .       .227 

jCLVIII.    The  Dinner     .       . 232 

XLIX.  ;The  Dance      ........    236 

L.    A  Jealous  Cousin .239 

LI.  Under  the  Deodara     ...       .       ,       .       .244 

LII.  The  Illustrious  Exile.       .....    250 

LI II.  A  Kingly  Scheme  of  Revolution      .       .       .254 

LIV.  A  Desirable  Neighbourhood      .       .       .       .257 

LV.  A  Tenant  Secured        .       .       .       .       .       .261 

LVI.    A  Dress  Rehearsal 264 

LVII.  Patron  and  Protege    ......    268 

LVI  1 1.    Improved  Prospects 274 

LIX.  A  Distinguished  Dinner-party  .       ,       .       .278 

LX.  A  Parting  Present       ......    283 

LXI.    An  Informer 286 

LXII.  Unsociable  Fellow-Travellers  .       .       •       .    290 

LXI  1 1.  "It  is  Sweet— so  Sweet  n     .....    294 

LXIV.  A  Painful  Promise        ......    298 

LXV.    Spies 302 

LXVI.    Two  Cabs 309 

LXVII.  Disinterested  Sympathy      .       .       .       .       .312 

LXVI II.    An  Irksome  Imprisonment 316 

LXIX.    The  Cabriolet .    319 

LXX.  A  Skilful  Driver  .......    322 

LXXI.    A  Quiet  Hotel 327 

LXXII.    Wanted— a  Master  ! 331 


viii  Contents. 

CHAPTBK  fAGl 

LXXIII.    Purchasing  a  Passport 336 

LXXIV.  A  Sham  Insurrection.                            .       •  341 

LXXV.  A  Statesman  in  Private  Life  .       .       .       .  345 

LXXVI.  A  Modest  Demand                                            •  348 

LXXVII.  The  Count  de  Valmy        ,       .       ,       .       •  353 

LXXVI  1 1.    Contemplating  a  Canal 356 

LXXIX.    A  Petit  Souper 360 

LXXX.    On  the  Tow-Rope 365 

LXXXI.    Consent  at  Last 370 

LXXXII.  A  Consoling  Epistle  ......  376 

LXXXI  1 1.    Both  Pre-engaged 380 

LXXXIV.  The  Meet  at  Church        ...               .383 

LXXXV.  The  Climax  of  a  Criminal  Scheme       .       .  386 

LXXXVI.    Still  Later 590 


THE   CHILD    WIFE. 


CHAPTER  L 

THE   ISLE   OF   PEACE. 


Aquidnec — "  Isle  of  Peace  ! " 

Oh,  Coddington,  and  ye  Assistants  of  the  Genet**  <Lourt ! 
what  craze  possessed  you  to  change  this  fair -title  of  the  red 
aboriginal  for  the  petty  appellation  of  "  Rhodes  "  ? 

Out  upon  your  taste — your  classic  affectation  !  Out  upon  your 
ignorance — to  mistake  the  "  Roodt "  of  the  old  Dutch  navigator 
for  that  name  appertaining  to  the  country  of  the  Colossus  ! 

In  the  title  bestowed  by  Block  there  was  at  least  appropriate- 
ness— even  something  of  poetry.  Sailing  around  Sachuest  Point, 
he  beheld  the  grand  woods,  red  in  the  golden  sun-glow  of  autumn. 
Flashed  upon  his  delighted  eyes  the  crimson  masses  of  tree 
foliage,  and  the  festoonery  of  scarlet  creepers.  Before  his  face 
were  bright  ochreous  rocks  cropping  out  from  the  cliff.  Down  in 
his  log-book  went  the  "  Red  Island  ! " 

Oh,  worthy  Coddington,  why  did  you  reject  the  appellation  of 
the  Indian  ?  Or  why  decree  such  clumsy  transformation  to  that 
of  the  daring  Dutchman  ? 

I  shall  cling  to  the  old  title—"  Isle  of  Peace  "  ;  though  in  later 
times  less  apt  than  when  the  Wampanoag  bathed  his  bronzed 
limbs  in  the  tranquil  waters  of  the  Narraganset,  and  paddled  hif 
light  canoe  around  its  rock-girt  shores. 

Since  then,  Aquidnec  !  too  often  hast  thou  felt  the  sore  scathing 
of  war.  Where  now  thy  virgin  woods  that  rejoiced  the  eves  of 
Verrazano,  fresh  from  Tuscan  scenes  ?  Where  thy  grand  oaks, 
elms,  and   maples?    Thy  green   pines   and   red   cedars?     Thy 

B 


T/ie  Child   Wife, 


birches  th?t  gave  bark,  thy  chestnuts  affording  food  ;  thy  sassafras 
laiwel,  restorer  of  health  and  life  ? 

Gone- -all  gcne.i  Swept  aw^y  by  the  torch  and  axe  of  the  ruth- 
less soldier-destioyer. 

Despite  thy  despoliation,  Aquidnec,  thou  art  still  a  fair  spot". 
Once  more  the  Isle  of  Peace,  the  abode  of  Love — its  very  Agape 
mone  ;  every  inch  of  thy  turf  trodden  by  lovers'  feet—  every  ledge 
of  thy  cliffs  listening  to  the  old,  old  story. 


Newport,  in  the  year  of  our  Lord  18 — ,  in  the  "height  of  the 
season." 

An  apartment  in  that  most .  hospitable  of  American  hostelries, 
the  Ocean  House,  with  a  window  looking  westward. 

On  the  troisibne  etage,  commanding  a  continuous  balcony,  with 
a  view  of  the  Atlantic,  spreading  broad  and  blue,  beyond  the 
range  of  the  telescope.  Sachuest  Point  on  the  left,  with  the 
spray,  like  snowflakes,  breaking  over  the  Cormorant  Rock ;  on 
the  right,  Beaver  Tail,  with  its  beacon  ;  between  them  a  fleet  of 
fishing-daft,  dipping  for  striped-bass  and  tautog ;  in  the  far  offing 
the  spread  sails  of  a  full-rigged  ship,  and  the  plume-like  smoke 
soaring  up  irom  a  steamer — both  broadside  to  the  beholder,  on 
their  way  between  the  t«vo  great  seaports  of  Shawmut  and  Man- 
hattan. 

A  noble  view  is  thw  opening  of  the  great  estuary  of  Narra- 
ganset — one  upon  wlv-ch  beautiful  eyes  have  often  rested. 

Never  more  beautiful  than  those  of  Julia  Girdwood,  the 
occupant  of  the  apartment  above  mentioned.     • 

She  is  not  i:s  sole  occupant.  There  is  another  young  ladv 
beside  her,  her  cousin,  Cornelia  Inskip.  She  has  also  pretty  eyes 
of  a  bluish  tint ;  but  they  are  scarce  observed  after  looking  into 
those  orbs  01  dark  bistre,  that  seem  to  burn  with  an  everlasting 
love-light. 

In  the  language  of  the  romance  writer,  Julia  would  be  termed 
a  bru/iette,  Cornelia  a  blonde.  Their  figures  are  as  different  as 
their  complexion  :  the  former  tall  and  of  full  womanly  develop- 
ment, the  latter  of  low  stature,  slighter,  and  to  all  appearance 
more  youthful. 


The  Isle  of  Peace. 


Equally  unlike  their  dispositions.  She  of  the  dark  com- 
plexion appears  darker  in  thought,  with  greater  solemnity  of  move- 
ment; while,  judging  by  her  speech,  the  gay,  sprightly  Cornelia 
thinks  but  little  of  the  past,  and  still  less  about  the  future. 

Robed  in  loose  morning-wrappers,  with  tiny  slippers  poised 
upon  their  toes,  they  are  seated  in  rocking-chairs,  just  inside  the 
window.  The  eyes  of  both,  sweeping  the  blue  sea,  have  just 
descried  the  steamer  coming  from  beyond  the  distant  Point 
Judith,  and  heading  in  a  north-easterly  direction. 

It  was  a  fine  sight,  this  huge  black  monster  beating  its  way 
through  the  blue  water,  and  leaving  a  white  seething  track  behind 
it. 

Cornelia  sprang  out  into  the  balcony  to  get  a  better  view  of  it 

"  I  wonder  what  boat  it  is  ? "  she  said.  "  One  of  the  great 
ocean  steamers,  I  suppose — a  Cunarder  ! " 

11 1  think  not,  Neel.  'I  wish  it  was  one,  and  I  aboard  of  it 
Thank  Heaven  !  I  shall  be,  before  many  weeks." 

"  What !  tired  of  Newport  already  ?  We'll  find  no  pleasanter 
place  in  Europe.     I'm  sure  we  shan't." 

"  We'll  find  pleasanter  people,  at  all  events." 

11  Why,  what  have  you  got  against  them  ?  " 

"  What  have  they  got  against  us  ?  I  don't  mean  the  natives 
here.  They're  well  enough,  in  their  way.  I  speak  of  their 
summer  visitors,  like  ourselves.  You  ask  what  they've  got  against 
us.     A  strange  question  !  " 

"  /  haven't  noticed  anything." 

"  But  /  have.  Because  our  fathers  were  retail  storekeepers, 
these  J.'s  and  L.'s  and  B.'s  affect  to  look  down  upon  us  !  You 
know  they  do." 

Miss  Inskip  could  not  deny  that  something  of  this  had  been 
observed  by  her.  But  she  was  one  of  those  contented  spirits  who 
set  but  little  store  upon  aristocratic  acquaintances,  and  are  vhere- 
fore  insensible  to  its  slights. 

With  the  proud  Julia  it  was  different.  If  not  absolutely  slight- 
ing, the  "  society  "  encountered  in  this  fashionable  watering-place 
had  in  some  way  spited  her — that  section  of  it  described  as  the 
J.'s  and  the  L.'s  and  the  B.'s. 

"And  for  what  reason?"  she  continued,  with  increasing  indig- 


The  Child  WifL 


nation.  "If  our  fathers  were  retail  storekeepers,  their  grand- 
fathers were  the  same.  Where's  the  difference,  I  should  like  to 
know  ?  " 

Miss  Inskip  could  see  none,  and  said  so. 

But  this  did  not  tranquillize  the  chafed  spirit  of  her  cousin,  and 
perceiving  it,  she  tried  to  soothe  her  on  another  tack. 

"Well,  Julia,  if  the  Miss  J.'s,  and  Miss  L.'s,  and  Miss  B.'s, 
look  down  on  us,  their  brothers  don't.  On  you,  I'm  sure  they 
don't,'' 

"Bother  their  brothers!  A  fig  for  their  condescension.  Do 
you  take  rne  for  a  stupid,  Neel  ?  A  million  dollars  left  by  my 
father's  will,  and  which  must  come  to  me  at  mother's  death,  will 
account  for  it.  Besides,  unless  the  quicksilver  in  my  looking- 
glass  tells  a  terrible  lie,  I'm  not;  such  a  fright." 

She  might  well  talk  thus.  Than  Julia  Girdwood,  anything  less 
like  a  fright  never  stood  in  front  of  a  mirfor.  Full-grown,  and  of 
perfect  form,  this  storekeeper's  daughter  had  all  the  grand  air  of 
a  duchess.  The  face  was  perfect  as  the  figure.  You  could  not 
look  upon  it  without  thoughts  ef  love  ;  though  strangely,  and 
somewhat  unpleasantly,  commingled  with  an  idea  of  danger.  It 
was  an  aspect  that  suggested  Cleopatra,  Lucrezia  Borgia,  or  the 
beautiful  murderess  of  Darnley. 

In  her  air  there  was  no  awkwardness— not  the  slightest  sign 
of  humble  origin,  or  the  gaucherie  that  usually  springs  from  it. 
Something  of  this  might  have  been  detected  in  the  country  cousin, 
Cornelia.  But  Julia  Girdwood  had  been  stepping  too  long  on 
the  flags  of  the  Fifth  Avenue,  to  be  externally  distinguished  from 
the  proudest  damsels  of  that  aristocratic  street.  Her  mother's 
house  was  in  it. 

"  It  is  true,  Julia,"  assented  her  cousin ;  "  you  are  both  rich 
and  beautiful.     I  wish   I  could  say  the  same." 

"  Come,  little  flatterer  !  if  not  the  first,  you  are  certainly  the 
last ;  though  neither  counts  for  much  here." 

"Why  did  we  come  here?" 

"  I  had  nothing  to  do  with  it.  Mamma  is  answerable  for  that 
For  my  part  I  prefer  Saratoga,  where  there's  less  pretensions  about 
pedigree,  and  where  a  shopkeeper's  daughter  is  as  good  as  his 
granddaughter.     I  wanted  to  go  there   this    season.    Mother 


The  Isle  of  Peace, 


objected.  Nothing  would  satisfy  her  but  Newport,  Newport, 
Newport  I  And  here  we  are.  Thank  Heaven  !  it  won't  be  for 
long." 

"  Well,  since  we  are  here,  let  us  at  least  enjoy  what  everybody 
comes  for— the  bathing." 

"  Pretends  to  come  for,  you  mean  1  Dipping  their  skins  in 
salt  water,  the  Miss  J.'s,  and  L.'s,  and  B.'s — much  has  that  to  do 
with  their  presence  at  Newport  1  A  good  thing  for  them  if  it  had  1 
It  might  improve  their  complexions  a  little.  Heaven  knows  they 
need  it ;  and  Heaven  be  thanked  I  don't." 

"  But  you'll  bathe  to-day  ?  " 

"  I  shan't !  " 

"  Consider,  cousin !     It's  such  a  delightful  sensation." 

"  I  hate  it ! " 

"  You're  jesting,  Julia?  " 

"Well,  I  don't  mean  that  I  dislike  bathing—only  in  that 
crowd." 

"  But  there's  no  exclusiveness  on  the  beach." 

"I  don't  care.  I  won't  go  among  them  any  more — on  the 
beach,  or  elsewhere.  If  I  could  only  bathe  out  yonder,  in  the 
deep  blue  water,  or  amid  those  white  breakers  we  see  1  Ah  !  that 
would  be  a  delightful  sensation  !  I  wonder  if  there's  any  place 
where  we  could  take  a  dip  by  ourselves  ?  " 

"  There  is ;  I  know  the  very  spot.  I  discovered  it  the  other 
day,  when  I  was  out  with  Keziah  gathering  shells.  It's  down 
under  the  cliffs.  There's  a  sweet  little  cave,  a  perfect  grotto,  with 
a  deepish  pool  in  front,  and  smooth  sandy  bottom,  white  as  silver. 
The  cliff  quite  overhangs  it.  I'm  sure  no  one  could  see  us  from 
above ;  especially  if  we  go  when  the  people  are  bathing.  *  Then 
everybody  would  be  at  the  beach,  and  we'd  have  the  cliff  shore 
to  ourselves.  For  that  matter,  we  can  undress  in  the  cave,  with 
out  the  chance  of  a  creature  seeing  us.  Keziah  could  keep  watch 
outside.     Say  you'll  go,  Julia ! " 

"Well,  I  don't  mind.  But  what  about  mamma?  She's  such 
a  terrible  stickler  for  the  proprieties.     She  may  object" 

"  We  needn't  let  her  know  anything  about  it.  She  don't  intend 
bathing  to-day  ;  she's  just  told  me  so.  We  two  can  start  in  the 
usual  style,  as  if  going  to  the  beach.    Once  outside,  we  can  go 


The  Child  Wife. 


our  own  way.  I  know  of  a  path  across  the  fields  that'll  take  ua 
almost  direct  to  the  place.     You'll  go  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I'm  agreed." 

41  It's  time  for  us  to  set  out,  then.  You  hear  that  tramping 
along  the  corridor?  It's  the  bathers  about  to  start.  Let  us  call 
Keziah,  and  be  off." 

As  Julia  made  no  objection,  her  sprightly  cousin  tripped  out 
into  the  corridor ;  and,  stopping  before  the  door  of  an  adjoining 
apartment,  called  "  Keziah  !  " 

The  room  was  Mrs.  Girdwood's  ;  Keziah,  her  servant — a  sable- 
skinned  damsel,  who  played  lady's  maid  for  all  three. 

"  What  is  it,  child  ?  "  asked  a  voice  evidently  not  Keziah's. 

"  We're  going  to  bathe,  aunt,"  said  the  young  lady,  half-opening 
the  door,  and  looking  in.  "  We  want  Keziah  to  get  ready  the 
dresses." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  rejoined  the  same  voice,  which  was  that  of  Mrs. 
Girdwood  herself.  "  You  hear,  Keziah  ?  And  hark  ye,  girls  !  " 
she  added,  addressing  herself  to  the  two  young  ladies,  now  both 
standing  in  the  doorway,  "see  that  you  take  a  swimming  lesson. 
Remember  we  are  going  over  the  great  seas,  where  there's  many 
a  chance  of  getting  drowned." 

"  Oh,  ma  !  you  make  one  shiver." 

"  Well,  well,  I  hope  swimming  may  never  be  needed  by  you. 
For  all  that,  there's  no  harm  in  being  able  to  keep  your  head 
above  water,  and  that  in  more  senses  than  one.  Be  quick,  girl, 
with  the  dresses  !  The  people  are  all  gone ;  you'll  be  late.  Now, 
then,  off  with  you  1 " 

Keziah  soon  made  her  appearance  in  the  corridor,  carrying  a 
bundle. 

A  stout,  healthy-looking  negress — her  woolly  head  "  toqued  " 
in  New  Orleans  style,  with  a  checkered  bandanna — she  was  an 
appanage  of  the  defunct  storekeeper's  family  ;  specially  designed 
to  give  to  it  an  air  Southern,  and  of  course  aristocratic.  At  this 
time  Mrs.  Girdwood  was  not  the  only  Northern  lady  who  selected 
her  servants  with  an  eye  to  such  effect. 

Slippers  were  soon  kicked  off,  and  kid  boots  pulled  on  in  their 
places.  Hats  were  set  coquettishly  on  the  head,  and  shawls — 
for  the  day  wa*  rather  cool — were  thrown  loosely  over  shoulder*. 


The  Isle  of  Peace. 


"  Come  on  !  *  and  at  the  word  the  cousins  glided  along  the 
gallery,  descended  the  great  stair,  tripped  across  the  piazza  out- 
side, and  then  turned  off  in  the  direction  of  the  Bath  Road. 

Once  out  of  sight  of  the  hotel,  they  changed  their  course, 
striking  into  a  path  that  led  more  directly  toward  the  cliff. 

In  less  than  twenty  minutes  after,  they  might  have  been  seei 
descending  it,  through  one  of  those  sloping  ravines  that  here  and 
there  interrupt  the  continuity  of  the  precipice — Cornelia  going 
%st,  Julw  ^nse  after,  the  turbaned  negress,  bearing  her  bundle.  »a 
^e  rear. 


CHAPTER  II. 

A   BRACE   OF   NAIADS. 

They  were  seen. 

A  solitary  gentleman  sauntering  along  the  cliff,  saw  the  girls  go 
down. 

He  was  coming  from  the  direction  of  Ochre  Point,  but  too  far 
off  to  tell  more  than  that  they  were  two  young  ladies,  followed 
by  a  black  servant. 

He  thought  it  a  little  strange  at  that  hour.  It  was  bathing, 
time  upon  the  beach.  He  could  see  the  boxes  discharging  their 
gay  groups  in  costumes  of  green  and  blue,  crimson  and  scarlet — 
in  the  distance  looking  like  parti-coloured  Lilliputians. 

"Why  are  these  two  ladies  not  along  with  them?"  was  his 
reflection.  "  Shell-gatherers,  I  suppose,"  was  the  conjecture  that 
followed.  "  Searchers  after  strange  seaweeds.  From  Boston, 
no  doubt.  And  I'd  bet  high  that  the  nose  of  each  is  bridged 
with  a  pair  of  blue  spectacles." 

The  gentleman  smiled  at  the  conceit,  but  suddenly  changed 
it.  The  sable  complexion  of  the  servant  suggested  a  different 
conclusion. 

"  More  like  they  are  Southerners  ?  "  was  the  muttered  remark. 

After  making  it  he  ceased  to  think  of  them.  He  had  a  gun  in 
his  hand,  and  was  endeavouring  to  get  a  shot  at  some  of  the  large 
seabirds  now  and  then  sweeping  along  the  escarpment  of  the 
cliff. 

As  the  tide  was  still  only  commencing  to  return  from  its  ebb, 
these  flew  low,  picking  up  their  food  from  the  stranded  algce  that, 
like  a  fringe,  followed  the  outlines  of  the  shore. 

The  sportsman,  observing  this,  became  convinced  he  would 
have  a  better  chance  below ;  and  down  went  he  through  one  of 
the  gaps — the  first  that  presented  itself. 

Keeping  on  towards  the  Forty  Steps,  he  progressed  only  slowly. 


A  Brace  of  Naiads. 


Here  and  there  rough  ledges  required  scaling ;  the  yielding  sand 
also  delayed  him. 

But  he  was  in  no  hurry.  The  chances  of  a  shot  were  as  good 
at  one  place  as  another.  Hours  must  elapse  ere  the  Ocean  House 
gong  would  summon  its  scattered  guests  to  their  grand  dinner. 
He  was  one  of  them.  Until  that  time  he  had  no  reason  for  re- 
turning to  the  hotel. 

The  gentleman  thus  leisurely  strolling,  is  worthy  a  word  or  two 
by  way  of  description. 

That  he  was  only  an  amateur  sportsman,  his  style  of  dress 
plainly  proclaimed.  More  plainly  did  it  bespeak  the  soldier.  A 
forage  cap,  that  had  evidently  seen  service,  half  shadowed  a  face 
whose  deep  sun-tan  told  of  that  service  being  done  in  a.  tropical 
clime ;  while  the  tint,  still  fresh  and  warm,  was  evidence  of  recent 
return.  A  plain  frock-coat,  of  civilian  cut,  close  buttoned  ;  a  pair 
of  dark-blue  pantaloons,  with  well-made  boots  below  them,  com- 
pleted his  semi-military  costume.  Added  :  that  these  garments 
were  fitted  upon  a  figure  calculated  to  display  them  to  the  utmost 
advantage. 

The  face  was  in  keeping  with  the  figure.  Not  oval,  but  of  that 
rotund  shape,  ten  times  more  indicative  of  daring,  as  of  determin- 
ation. Handsome,  too,  surmounted  as  it  was  by  a  profusion  of 
dark  hair,  and  adorned  by  a  well-defined  moustache.  These  ad- 
vantages had  the  young  man  in  question,  who,  despite  the  appear- 
ance of  much  travel,  and  some  military  service,  was  still  under 
thirty. 

Slowly  sauntering  onward,  his  boots  scranching  among  the 
pebbles,  he  heard  but  the  sound  of  his  own  footsteps. 

It  was  only  on  stopping  to  await  the  passage  of  a  gull,  and 
while  calculating  the  carry  of  his  gun,  that  other  sounds  arrested 
his  attention. 

These  were  so  sweet,  that  the  gull  was  at  once  forgotten.  It 
flew  past  without  his  attempting  to  pull  trigger — although  so 
close  to  the  muzzle  of  his  gun  he  might  have  "  murdered  n  it ! 

"  Nymphs  !  Naiads  !  Mermaids  !  Which  of  the  three  ?  Pro- 
serpine upon  a  rock  superintending  their  aquatic  sports  1  Ye 
gods  and  goddesses  !  what  an  attractive  tableau  I" 

These  words  escaped  him,  as  he  stood  crouching  behind  a  point 


10  The  Child   Wife. 


of  rock  that  abutted  Jar  out  from  the  line  of  the  cliff.  Beyond  it 
was  the  cove  in  which  the  young  ladies  were  bathing — the  negress 
keeping  but  careless  watch  as  she  sat  upon  one  of  the  ledges. 

"  Chaste  Dian  ! "  exclaimed  the  sportsman  ;  "  pardon  me  for- 
tius intrusion.  Quite  inadvertent,  I  assure  you.  I  must  track 
back,"  he  continued,  "  to  save  myself  from  being  transformed  into 
a  stag.  Provoking,  too  !  I  wanted  to  go  that  way  to  explore  a 
cave  I've  heard  spoken  of.  I  came  out  with  this  intention.  How 
awkward  to  be  thus  interrupted  ! " 

There  was  something  like  a  lie  outlined  upon  his  features  aa 
he  muttered  the  last  reflection.  In  his  actions  too ;  for  he  still 
loitered  behind  the  rock — still  kept  looking  over  it 

Plunging  in  pellucid  water  not  waist-deep— their  lower  extrem- 
ities only  concealed  by  the  saturated  skirts  that  clung  like  cere- 
ments around  them — their  feet  showing  clear  as  coral — the  two 
young  creatures  continued  to  disport  themselves.  Only  Joseph 
himself  could  have  retreated  from  the  sight ! 

And  then  their  long  hair  in  full  dishevelment — of  two  colours, 
black  and  gold — sprinkled  by  the  pearly  spray,  as  the  girls,  with 
tiny  rose-tipped  fingers,  dashed  the  water  in  each  other's  faces — 
all  the  time  making  the  rocks  ring  with  the  music  of  their  merry 
voices — ah  I  from  such  a  picture  who  could  comfortably  withdraw 
his  eyes  ? 

It  cost  the  sportsman  an  effort ;  of  which  he  was  capable — only 
by  thinking  of  his  sister. 

And  thinking  of  her,  he  loitered  no  longer,  but  drew  back  be- 
hind the  rock. 

"  Deuced  awkward  !  "  he  again  muttered  to  himself — perhaps 
this  time  with  more  sincerity.  "  I  wished  particularly  to  go  that 
way.  The  cave  cannot  be  much  farther  on,  and  now  to  trudge 
all  the  way  back  !  I  must  either  do  that,  or  wait  till  they've  got 
through  their  game  of  aquatics." 

For  a  moment  he  stood  reflecting.  It  was  a  considerable  dis- 
tance to  the  place  where  he  had  descended  the  cliff.  Moreover, 
the  track  was  toilsome,  as  he  had  proved  by  experience. 

He  decided  to  stay  where  he  was  till  the  "  coast  should  be  clear.' 

He  sat  down  upon  a  stone,  took  out  a  cigar,  and  commenced 
smoking. 


A  Brace  of  Naiads.  1 1 


He  was  scarce  twenty  paces  from  the  pool  in  which  the  pretty 
dears  were  enjoying  themselves.  He  could  hear  the  plashing  of 
their  palms,  like  young  cygnets  beating  the  water  with  their  wings. 
He  could  hear  them  exchange  speeches,  mingled  with  peals  of 
clear-ringing  laughter.  There  could  be  no  harm  in  listening  to 
these  sounds,  since  the  sough  of  the  sea  hindered  him  from  making 
out  what  was  said.  Only  now  and  then  did  he  distinguish  xn 
interjection,  proclaiming  the  delight  in  which  the  two  Naiads  were 
indulging,  or  one,  the  sharper  voice  of  the  negress,  to  warn  them 
against  straying  too  far  out,  as  the  tide  had  commenced  rising. 

From  these  signs  he  knew  he  had  not  been  observed  while 
standing  exposed  by  the  projection  of  rock. 

A  full  half-hour  elapsed,  and  still  continued  the  plunging  and 
the  peals  of  laughter. 

"  Very  mermaids  they  must  be — to  stay  so  long  in  the  water  ! 
Surely  they've  had  enough  of  it ! " 

As  shown  by  this  reflection,  the  sportsman  was  becoming  im- 
patient. 

Shortly  after,  the  plashing  ceased,  and  along  with  it  the  laughter. 
He  could  still  hear  the  voices  of  the  two  girls  engaged  in  conver- 
sation— at  intervals  intermingled  with  that  of  the  negress. 

"They  are  out  now,  and  dressing,"  he  joyfully  conjectured. 
"I  wonder  how  long  they'll  be  about  that.  Not  another  hour,  I 
hope." 

He  took  out  a  fresh  cigar.     It  was  his  third. 

"  By  the  time  I've  finished  this,"  reflected  he,  "  they'll  be  gone. 
At  all  events,  they  ought  to  be  dressed ;  and,  without  rudeness,  I 
may  take  the  liberty  of  slipping  past  them." 

He  lit  the  cigar,  smoked,  and  listened. 

The  conversation  was  now  carried  on  in  an  uninterrupted  strain, 
but  in  quieter  tones,  and  no  longer  interspersed  with  laughter. 

The  cigar  became  shortened  to  a  stump,  and  still  those  silvery 
'voices  were  heard  mingling  with  the  hoarse  symphony  of  the  sea 
— the  latter,  each  moment  growing  louder  as  the  tide  continued 
to  rise.  A  fresh  breeze  had  sprung  up,  which,  brought  shoreward 
by  the  tidal  billow,  increased  the  noise ;  until  the  voices  of  the 
girls  appeared  like  some  distant  metallic  murmur,  and  the  listener 
at  length  doubted  whethei  he  heard  them  oi  not 


12  Tfie  Child  Wife. 


"  Their  time's  up,"  he  said,  springing  to  his  feet,  and  flinging 
away  the  stump  of  the  cigar.  "  They've  had  enough  to  make  their 
toilet  twice  over,  at  all  events.  I  can  give  no  more  grace ;  so 
here  goes  to  continue  my  exploration  !  " 

He  turned  towards  the  projection  of  the  cliff.  A  single  step 
forward,  and  he  came  to  a  stand — his  countenance  suddenly  be- 
coming clouded  with  an  unpleasant  expression !  The  tide  had 
stolen  up  to  the  rocks,  and  the  point  of  the  promontory  was  now 
full  three  feet  under  water ;  while  the  swelling  waves,  at  intervals, 
surged  still  higher ! 

There  was  neither  beach  below,  nor  ledge  above ;  no  way  but 
by  taking  to  the  water. 

The  explorer  saw  that  it  would  be  impossible  to  proceed  in  the 
direction  intended,  without  wading  up  to  his  waist.  The  object 
he  had  in  view  was  not  worth  such  a  saturation ;  and  with  an  ex- 
clamation of  disappointment — chagrin,  too,  for  the  lost  time — he 
turned  upon  his  heel,  and  commenced  retracing  his  steps  along 
the  base  of  the  bluffs. 

He  no  longer  went  strolling  or  sauntering.  An  apprehension 
had  arisen  in  his  mind  that  stimulated  him  to  the  quickest  pace 
in  his  power.  What  if  his  retreat  should  be  cut  off  by  the  same 
obstacle  that  had  interrupted  his  advance  ? 

The  thought  was  sufficiently  alarming;  and  hastily  scrambling 
over  the  ledges,  and  skimming  across  the  stretches  of  quicksand 
— now  transformed  into  pools — he  only  breathed  freely  when  once 
Store  in  the  gorge  by  which  he  had  descended. 


CHAPTER   IIL 

THE     TWO     POETASTERS. 

The  sportsman  was  under  a  mistake  about  the  girls  being  gone. 
They  were  still  within  the  cove ;  only  no  longer  conversing. 

Their  dialogue  had  ended  along  with  their  dressing ;  and  they 
had  betaken  themselves  to  two  separate  occupations — both  of 
which  called  for  silence.  Miss  Girdwood  had  commenced  reading 
a  book  that  appeared  to  be  a  volume  of  poems  ;  while  her  cousin, 
who  had  come  provided  with  drawing  materials,  was  making  a 
sketch  of  the  grotto  that  had  served  them  for  a  robing-room. 

On  their  emerging  from  the  water,  Keziah  had  plunged  into  the 
same  pool — now  disturbed  by  the  incoming  tide,  and  deep  enough 
to  conceal  her  dusky  charms  from  the  eyes  of  any  one  straying 
along  the  cliff. 

After  spluttering  about  for  a  matter  of  ten  minutes,  the  negress 
returned  to  the  shore ;  once  more  drew  the  gingham  gown  over 
her  head ;  squeezed  the  salt  spray  out  of  her  kinky  curls ;  re- 
adjusted the  bandanna  ;  and,  giving  way  to  the  languor  produced 
by  the  saline  immersion,  lay  down  upon  the  dry  shingle — almost 
instantly  falling  asleep. 

In  this  way  had  the  trio  become  disposed,  as  the  explorer,  after 
discovering  the  obstruction  to  his  progress,  turned  back  along  the 
strand — their  silence  leading  him  to  believe  they  had  taken  de- 
parture. 

For  some  time  this  silence  continued,  Cornelia  taking  great 
pains  with  her  drawing.  It  was  a  scene  well  worthy  of  her  pencil, 
and  with  the  three  figures  introduced,  just  as  they  were,  could  not 
fail  to  make  an  interesting  picture.  She  intended  it  as  the  record 
of  a  rare  and  somewhat  original  scene  :  for,  although  young  ladies 
occasionally  took  a  sly  dip  in  such  solitary  places,  it  required  a 
certain  degree  of  daring. 

Seated  upon  a  stone,  as  far  out  as  the  tide  would  allow  her,  she 
sketched  her  cousin,  leaning  studiously  against  the  cliflj  and  the 


14  The  Child   Wife. 


sable-skinned  maid-servant,  with  turbaned  head,  lying  stretched 
along  the  shingle.  The  scarped  precipice,  with  the  grotto  under- 
neath ;  the  dark  rocks  here  overhanging,  there  seamed  by  a  gorge 
that  sloped  steeply  upward — the  sides  of  the  latter  trellised  with 
convolvuli  and  plumps  of  fantastic  shrubbery, — all  these  were  to 
appear  in  the  picture. 

She  was  making  fair  progress,  when  interrupted  by  an  exclama- 
tion from  her  cousin. 

The  latter  had  been  for  some  time  turning  over  the  leaves  of 
her  book  with  a  rapidity  that  denoted  either  impatience  or  dire 
disappointment  in  its  contents. 

At  intervals  she  would  stop,  read  a  few  lines,  and  then  sweep 
onward — as  if  in  search  of  something  better. 

This  exercise  ended,  at  length,  by  her  dashing  the  volume  down 
upon  the  shingle,  and  exclaiming ; 

"Stuff!" 

"Who?" 

"  Tennyson." 

"Surely  you're  jesting?  The  divine  Tennyson — the  pet  poet 
of  the  age  ?  " 

"  Poet  of  the  age  1     There's  no  such  person  1 " 

"What  !  not  Longfellow?  " 

"  Another  of  the  same.  The  American  edition,  diluted,  if  such 
a  thing  were  possible.  Poets  indeed  !  Rhymesters  of  quaint  con- 
ceits—spinners of  small  sentiments  in  long  hexameters — not  soul 
enough  in  all  the  scribblings  of  both  to  stir  up  the  millionth  part 
of  an  emotion  !  " 

"You  are  severe,  cousin.  How  do  you  account  for  their 
world-wide  popularity  ?  Is  that  not  a  proof  of  their  being 
poets  ?  " 

"  Was  it  a  proof  in  the  case  of  Sou  they  ?  Poor,  conceited 
Southey,  who  believed  himself  superior  to  Byron !  And  the 
world  shared  his  belief— at  least  one-half  of  it,  while  he  lived  I 
In  these  days  such  a  dabbler  in  verse  would  scarce  obtain  the 
privilege  of  print." 

"  But  Longfellow  and  Tennyson  have  obtained  it" 

"  True ;  and  along  with,  as  you  say,  a  world-wide  reputation. 
All  that  is  easily  explained." 


The  Two  Poetasters,  1 5 

"How?" 

"  By  the  accident  of  their  coming  after  Byron — immediately 
after  him." 

"  I  don't  comprehend  you,  cousin." 

"Nothing  can  be  clearer.  Byron  made  the  world  drunk  with 
A  divine  intoxication.  His  superb  verse  was  to  the  soul  what 
wine  is  to  the  body;  producing  a  grand  and  glorious  thrill — a 
very  carousal  of  intellectual  enjoyment.  Like  all  such  excesses, 
it  was  followed  by  that  nervous  debility  that  requires  a  blue  pill 
and  black  draught.  It  called  for  its  absinthe  and  camomile 
bitters ;  and  these  have  been  supplied  by  Alfred  Tennyson,  Poet 
Laureate  to  the  Queen  of  England,  and  Henry  Wadsworth  Long- 
fellow, pet  of  the  sentimental  and  spectacled  young  ladies  of 
Boston.  It  was  a  poetic  tempest,  to  be  followed  by  a  prosaic 
calm,  that  has  now  lasted  over  forty  years,  unbroken  save  by  the 
piping  of  this  pair  of  poetasters ! " 

"  Peter  Piper  picked  a  peck  of  pickled  peppers !  *  repeated 
Cornelia,  with  a  good-natured  laugh. 

"Yes !"  cried  Julia,  rather  irritated  by  her  cousin's  indifference. 
"  By  just  such  a  paltry  play  upon  words,  by  the  imagination  of 
small  sentimentclities,  and  sickly  conceits,  plucked  out  of  barren 
brains,  and  then  machined  into  set  stanzas,  have  these  same 
poetasters  obtained  the  world-wide  reputation  you  speak  of.  Out 
upon  such  pretenders !     And  this  is  how  I  would  serve  them." 

She  raised  her  little  foot,  and,  with  a  spiteful  stamp,  brought 
her  heel  down  upon  poor  Tennyson,  sinking  hira  deep  into  the 
spongy  sand ! 

"  Oh,  Julia,  you've  spoilt  the  book  !  " 

"There's  nothing  in  it  to  spoil.  Waste  print  and  paper. 
There's  more  poetry  in  one  of  these  pretty  seaweeds  that  lie 
neglected  on  the  sand — far  more  than  in  a  myriad  of  such  worth- 
less volumes.     Let  it  lie  ! " 

The  last  words  were  addressed  to  Keziah,  who,  startled  from 
her  slumber,  had  stooped  to  pick  up  the  trampled  volume. 

"Let  it  lie,  till  the  waves  sweep  over  it  and  bear  it  into 
oblivion ;  as  the  waves  of  Time  will  wash  out  the  memory  of  its 
author.     Oh,  for  one  true — one  real  poet ! " 

At  this  moment  Cornelia  started  to  her  feet ;  not  from  anything 


16  The  Child  Wife. 


said  by  her  cousin,  but  simply  because  the  waves  of  the  Atlantic 
were  already  stealing  around  her  skirts.  As  she  stood  erect,  the 
water  was  dripping  from  them. 

The  sketcher  regretted  this  interruption  of  her  task;  the  picture 
was  but  half  completed ;  and  it  would  spoil  it  to  change  the  point 
of  view. 

"  No  matter,"  she  muttered,  closing  her  sketch-book,  "  we  can 
come  again  to-morrow.  You  will,  won't  you,  Julia,  to  oblige 
me?" 

"  And  myself,  miss.  It's  the  very  thing,  this  little  plunge  sans 
fafon.  I  haven't  enjoyed  anything  like  it  since  landing  on  the 
island  of— of— Aquidnec.  That,  I  believe,  is  the  ancient  appel- 
lation. Come,  then,  let  us  be  off !  To-day,  for  a  novelty,  I  shall 
dine  with  something  resembling  an  appetite." 

Keziah  having  wrung  out  the  bathing-dresses  and  tied  them  in 
a  bundle,  the  three  prepared  to  depart. 

Tennyson  still  lay  crushed  upon  the  sand;  and  his  spiteful 
critic  would  not  allow  him  to  be  taken  up  ! 

They  started  to  return  to  the  hotel — intending  to  go  up  the 
cliff  by  the  same  ravine  through  which  they  had  come  down 
They  knew  of  no  other  way. 

On  reaching  the  jutting  rock  that  formed  the  flanking  of  the 
cove,  all  three  were  brought  suddenly  to  a  stand. 

There  was  no  path  by  which  they  could  proceed;  they  had 
stayed  too  long  in  the  cove,  and  the  tide  had  cut  off  their  retreat 

The  water  was  only  a  few  feet  in  depth ;  and,  had  it  been  still, 
they  might  have  waded  it.  But  the  flow  was  coming  in  with 
a  surge  strong  enough  to  sweep  them  off  their  feet. 

They  saw  this,  but  without  feeling  anything  like  fear.  They 
regarded  it  only  as  an  unpleasant  interruption. 

"We  must  go  in  the  opposite  direction,"  said  Julia,  turning 
back  into  the  cove,  and  leading  the  way  around  it. 

But  here  again  was  their  path  obstructed,  just  as  on  the 
opposite  side. 

The  same  depth  of  water,  the  same  danger  to  be  dreaded  from 
the  lashing  of  the  surge  ! 

As  they  stood  regarding  it,  it  appeared  to  grow  deeper  and 
more  dangerous  1 


The  Two  Poetasters,  17 

Back  to  the  place  just  left. 

There,  too,  had  the  depth  been  increasing.  The  tide  seemed 
to  have  risen  more  than  a  foot  since  they  left  it  It  was  but  the 
breeze  still  freshening  over  the  sea. 

To  have  waded  around  either  point  seemed  no  longer  possible; 
and  none  of  the  three  could  swim  ! 

The  cousins  uttered  a  simultaneous  cry.  It  was  the  first  open 
acknowledgment  of  a  fear  both  secretly  felt. 

The  cry  was  echoed  by  their  dark-skinned  attendant,  far  more 
frightened  than  they. 

Back  again  to  the  other  side — once  more  back  and  forward — 
and  their  panic  was  complete. 

They  were  no  longer  in  doubt  about  their  situation.  On  both 
sides  che  path  was  obstructed.     Clearly  was  their  retreat  cut  off  1 

Up  the  precipice  went  their  eyes,  to  see  whether  it  could  be 
climbed.  It  needed  but  a  glance  to  tell  them  "Nol"  There 
was  the  gorge  running  up  the  cliff ;  but  it  looked  as  if  only  a  cat 
could  have  scaled  it ! 

They  turned  from  it  in  despair. 

There  was  but  one  hope  remaining.  The  tide  might  not 
mount  above  their  heads;  and  might  thsy  not  stay  where  they 
were  till  it  ebbed  again  ? 

With  quick  glances  they  interrogated  the  waves,  the  grotto,  the 
rocks  overhead.  Unaccustomed  to  the  sea,  they  knew  but  little 
of  its  ways.  They  knew  that  the  waves  rose  and  fell ;  but  how 
far  ?  They  could  see  nothing  to  tell  them ;  nothing  to  confirm 
their  fears,  or  assure  them  of  their  safety ! 

This  suspense  was  even  worse  to  endure  than  the  certainty  of 
danger. 

Oppressed  by  it,  the  two  girls  clasped  each  other  by  the  hand, 
wising  their  united  voices  *n  a  cry  for  deliverance : 

"Help!  Help!" 


CHAPTER    IV. 

w  HELP  !   HELP  !  n 

Their  cry  of  distress  ascended  to  the  summit  of  the  cliff. 

It  was  heard  ;  and  by  one  who  had  lately  listened  to  the  same 
voices,  speaking  in  tones  of  the  sweetest  contentment 

It  was  he  who  carried  the  gun. 

After  scrambling  up  the  gorge,  he  had  faced  northward  in  the 
direction  of  Easton's  Beach  ;  for  the  reason  only  that  this  was  his 
nearest  way  to  the  hotel. 

He  was  reflecting  upon  the  incident  that  had  caused  him  such 
a  toilsome  detour ;  though  his  thoughts  were  dwelling  less  upon 
this  than  upon  the  face  of  one  of  the  two  naiads  seen  playing  in 
the  pool. 

It  was  the  one  of  darker  complexion. 

Her  figure,  too,  was  recalled.  In  that  transitory  glance  he  had 
perceived  above  the  water-line,  and  continued  in  the  translucency 
beneath,  an  outline  not  easily  forgotten.  He  so  well  remembered 
it,  as  almost  to  repent  the  spasm  of  delicacy  that  had  caused  him 
to  retreat  behind  the  rock. 

This  repentance  had  something  to  do  with  the  direction  he  was 
now  taking. 

He  had  hopes  of  encountering  the  bathers  as  they  came  up  to 
the  summit  of  the  cliff. 

Much  time,  however,  had  passed.  He  could  see  that  the 
beach  was  deserted — the  few  dark  forms  appearing  upon  it  being 
evidently  those  solitary  creatures  of  bachelor  kind,  who  become 
Neptune's  guests  only  at  the  second  table. 

Of  course  the  two  mermaids  having  exchanged  their  loose 
aquatic  costume  for  the  more  constrained  dress  of  the  street,  had 
long  since  gone  home  to  the  hotel.     This  was  his  conjecture. 

A  cry  came  to  contradict  it ;  close  followed  by  another,  and 
another  1 


"Help!  Help/"  19 

He  ran  out  to  the  edge  of  the  cliff  and  looked  downward.  He 
could  remember  nothing  of  the  landmarks.  The  tide,  now  well 
in,  had  changed  the  look  of  everything  below.  The  ledges  were 
covered — their  position  only  to  be  told  by  the  surf  breaking  over 
them. 

Once  more  came  up  the  cry  ! 

Dropping  on  his  knees,  he  crept  closer  and  closer  to  the 
escarped  edge — out  to  its  very  brink.  Still  nothing  to  be  seen 
below  !  Neither  woman  nor  human  being.  Not  a  spot  on  which 
one  might  find  footing.  No  beach  above  water— no  shoal,  rock, 
or  ledge,  projecting  from  the  precipice — no  standing-place  of  any 
kind.  Only  the  dark  angry  waves,  roaring  like  enraged  lions,  and 
embracing  the  abutment  as  though  they  would  drag  it  back  with 
them  into  the  abysm  of  the  ocean  ! 

Amidst  the  crashing  and  seething,  once  more  ascended  the 
cry  !     Again,  and  again,  till  it  became  a  continuous  chant ! 

He  could  not  mistake  its  meaning.  The  bathers  were  still 
below.     Beyond  doubt  they  were  in  danger. 

How  could  he  assist  them  ? 

He  started  to  his  feet.  He  looked  all  round — along  the  cliff- 
path,  and  across  the  fields  stretching  back  from  the  shore. 

No  house  was  near — no  chance  of  obtaining  a  rope. 

He  turned  toward  Eastern's  Beach.  There  might  be  a  boat 
there.     But  could  it  be  brought  in  time? 

'  It  was  doubtful.  The  cries  continuing  told  him  that  the  peril 
was  imminent  Those  imperilled  might  be  already  struggling 
with  the  tide! 

At  this  moment  he  remembered  a  sloping  gorge.  It  could  not 
be  far  off  It  was  the  same  by  which  the  young  ladies  had  gone 
down.  He  was  a  strong  swimmer,  and  knew  it.  By  swimming 
round  into  the  cove,  he  might  be  able  to  effect  their  rescue. 

Giving  a  shout,  to  assure  them  that  their  situation  was  known, 
he  started  at  full  speed  along  the  crest  of  the  cliff. 

On  reaching  the  ravine,  he  flung  himself  into  it,  and  soon 
reached  the  sea-level  below. 

Without  pausing,  he  turned  along  the  shore,  rushing  over  sand 
and  shingle,  over  sharp  ledges,  and  making  his  way  among 
boulders  slippery  with  seaweed. 


20  Tht  Child  Wife. 


He  reached  the  abutment  that  flanked  one  side  of  the  cove, 
from  which  he  could  now  again  hear  the  cries  of  distress,  mingled 
with  the  hoarse  shrieking  of  the  sea. 

To  wade  round  the  point  was  plainly  impossible.  The  water 
was  neck-deep,  seething  and  swelling. 

Kicking  off  his  boots,  and  throwing  his  gun,  cap,  and  coat 
upon  a  ledge,  he  plunged  in,  and  commenced  a  struggle  with  the 
billows. 

It  cost  him  one — his  life  nearly.  Twice  was  his  body  borne 
against  the  rock  with  fearful  violence — each  time  receiving  injury 
in  the  shock. 

He  succeeded  in  rounding  the  point  and  reaching  the  cove 
beyond,  where  the  swell  broke  more  smoothly  upon  a  sloping  bed. 

He  now  swam  with  ease ;  and  soon  stood  in  the  presence  of 
the  bathers,  who,  at  sight  of  him,  had  ceased  their  cries,  believing 
their  danger  at  an  end. 

All  were  within  the  grotto,  to  which  they  had  retreated,  as 
offering  the  highest  ground.  For  all  this,  they  were  up  to  the 
ankles  in  water ! 

At  his  approach  they  rushed  out,  wading  knee-deep  to  meet 
him. 

"  Oh,  sir ! "  cried  the  eldest  of  the  young  ladies,  "  you  see  how 
we  are  situated  :  can  you  assist  us  ?  " 

The  swimmer  had  risen  erect  He  looked  right  and  left, 
before  making  rejoinder. 

"Can  you  swim?"  he  asked. 

"  Not  one  of  us." 

"  It  is  bad,"  he  muttered  to  himself.  "  Either  way,  it  is  doubt- 
ful whether  I  could  carry  them  through  it.  It's  been  as  much  as 
I  could  do  for  myself.  We'd  be  almost  certain  of  being  crushed. 
What,  in  heaven's  name,  can  be  done  for  them?" 

They  were  thoughts  rather  than  words,  and  the  girls  could  not 
know  them.  But  they  saw  the  stranger's  brow  clouded  with 
apprehension';  and  with  eyes  straining  into  his,  they  stood 
trembling. 

He  turned  suddenly,  and  glanced  up  the  cliff.  He  remem- 
bered the  seam  he  had  observed  from  above.  He  could  now 
survey  it  fr<  m  base  to  summit. 


Help!  Helpl"  21 


A  gleam  of  hope  flashed  over  his  face.     It  could  be  scaled  I 

"Surely  you  can  climb  up  there?"  he  asked,  encouragingly. 

"  No,  no !  I'm  sure  we  could  never  go  up  that  way.  /  could 
not." 

"Nor  L" 

"You  might  sustain  yourselves  by  taking  hold  of  the  bushes. 
It  is  not  so  difficult  as  it  appears.  Those  tufts  of  grass  would 
help  you ;  and  there  are  points  where  you  might  place  your  feef 
I  could  climb  it  easily  myself;  but,  unfortunately,  it  would  U 
impossible  for  me  to  assist  you.  There  is  not  room  fot  two  to  go 
up  together." 

"I  am  sure  I  should  fall  before  I  was  half-way  to  the  top \n 

This  was  said  by  Cornelia,  Julia  signified  the  same.  The 
negress  had  no  voice.  With  lips  ashy  pale,  she  seemed  too 
much  terrified  to  speak. 

"  Then  there  is  no  alternative  but  to  try  swimming,"  said  the 
stranger,  once  more  facing  seaward,  and  again  scrutinizing  the 
surf.  "  No ! "  he  added,  apparently  recoiling  from  the  design, 
"  by  swimming  I  might  save  myself,  though  it  is  no  longer  certain. 
The  swell  has  increased  since  I  came  in  here.  There's  been 
wind  on  the  sea  outside.  I'm  a  fair  swimmer ;  but  to  take  one 
of  you  with  me  is,  I  fear,  beyond  my  strength." 

"  But,  sir ! "  appealed  she  of  the  dark  eyes,  "  is  it  certain  we 
could  not  stay  here  till  the  tide  falls  again  ?  " 

"Impossible!  Look  there!"  answered  he,  pointing  to  the 
cliff. 

There  could  be  no  mistaking  what  he  meant.  That  line 
lending  horizontally  along  the  facade  of  the  precipice,  here  and 
mere  ragged  with  sea-wrack,  was  the  high-water  mark  of  the  tide. 
(t  was  far  overhead  ! 

The  girls  uttered  a  simultaneous  scream  as  they  stood  regarding 
it  It  was,  in  truth,  the  first  time  they  had  felt  a  full  sense  of 
their  danger.  Hitherto  they  had  been  sustained  by  a  hope  that 
the  tide  would  not  mount  so  high  as  to  submerge  them.  But 
there  was  the  tell-tale  track,  beyond  reach  even  of  their  hands  ! 

"  Courage  !  "  cried  the  stranger,  his  voice  all  at  once  assuming 
a  cheerful  tone,  as  if  some  bright  thought  had  occurred  to  him. 
"  You  have  shawls,  both  of  you.     Let  me  have  them." 


22  The  Chud  Wife. 


Without  questioning  his  purpose,  both  raised  the  cashmeres 
from  their  shoulders,  and  held  them  out  to  him. 

"  A  plan  has  occurred  to  me,"  said  he,  taking  out  his  knife,  and 
cutting  the  costly  fabric  into  strips.  "  I  did  not  think  of  it  before. 
By  the  help  of  these  I  may  get  you  up  the  cliff." 

The  shawls  were  soon  separated  into  several  bands.  These 
he  knotted  together  so  as  to  form  a  long,  narrow  festoon ery. 

With  eager  hands  the  young  ladies  assisted  him  in  the  opera- 
tion. 

"  Now  !"  he  said,  as  soon  as  the  junction  was  completed  ;  "b) 
this  I  can  draw  you  up,  one  by  one.     Who  first  ?  " 

"Go,  cousin!"  said  she  of  the  dark  eyes;  "you  are  lightest 
It  will  be  easier  for  him  in  the  trial." 

As  there  was  no  time  for  either  ceremony  or  dispute,  Cornelia 
accepted  the  suggestion.     The  stranger  could  have  no  choice. 

The  shawl-rope  was  carefully  adjusted  around  her  waist,  then 
with  equal  care  fastened  to  his.  Thus  linked,  they  commenced 
climbing  the  cliff. 

Though  difficult  for  both,  the  scaling  proved  successful ;  and  the 
young  girl  stood  unharmed  upon  the  summit. 

She  made  no  demonstration  of  joy.  Her  cousin  was  still  below 
— still  in  danger ! 

Once  again  down  the  gorge  by  which  he  had  before  descended. 
Once  more  around  the  rock,  battling  with  the  breakers — and  again 
safe  in  the  shelter  of  the  cove. 

-  The  shawl-rope  flung  down  from  above  had  been  caught  by 
those  below ;  and  was  for  the  second  time  put  into  requisition. 

In  like  manner  was  Julia  rescued  from  the  danger  of  drowning ! 

But  the  efforts  of  the  rescuer  did  not  end  here.  His  was  a 
gallantry  that  had  nought  to  do  with  the  colour  of  the  skin. 

For  the  third  time  his  life  was  imperilled,  and  the  negress 
stood  safe  upon  the  summit  of  the  cliff— to  unite  with  the  young 
ladies  in  the  expression  of  their  gratitude. 

"  We  can  never  sufficiently  thank  you,"  said  she  of  the  bistre- 
coloured  eyes. 

"  Oh,  never ! w  exclaimed  her  companion  with  the  irides  of 
azure. 

M  Another  favour,  sir,"  said  the  first  speaker.     "  It  seems  quite 


Help!  Help!"  21 


&  shame  to  ask  it.  But  we  shall  be  so  laughed  at  if  this  become 
known.  Would  it  be  too  much  to  request,  that  nothing  be  said 
of  our  very  unpleasant  adventure  ?  " 

"  There  shall  be  nothing  said  by  me,"  responded  the  rescuer. 
M  Of  that,  ladies,  you  may  rest  assured." 

"Thanks  ! — a  thousand  thanks  !  Indeed,  we  are  greatly  indebted 
to  you.     Good-day,  sir  1 

With  a  bow,  dark  eyes  turned  away  from  the  cliff  along  the 
path  leading  to  the  Ocean  House.  A  somewhat  deeper  sentiment 
was  observed  in  the  orbs  of  blue;  though  their  owner  took  leave 
without  giving  it  expression. 

The  confusion  arising  from  their  late  alarm  might  perhaps  plead 
their  excuse. 

None  was  needed  by  the  negress. 

"  God  bress  you,  brave  massa  !  God  bress  you  I "  were  her 
parting  words— the  only  ones  that  appeared  to  be  spoken  in  true 
gratitude, 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE   SCATHED   RETRIEVER, 

Filled  with  astonishment,  and  not  without  a  slight  feeling  of 
chagrin,  the  sportsman  stood  looking  after  the  trio  he  had  delivered 
from  almost  certain  death. 

"  A  thousand  thanks  !  Indeed  we  are  greatly  indebted  to 
you  ! " 

He  repeated  these  words,  imitating  the  tone  in  which  they  had 
been  spoken. 

"  By  my  faith  ! "  he  continued,  with  an  emphasis  on  each  word. 
"  if  that  isn't  a  little  of  the  coolest  !  What  the  dickens  have  I 
been  doing  for  these  dames  ?  In  the  country  of  my  christening  I'd 
have  had  as  much  for  helping  them  over  a  stile,  or  picking  up  a 
dropped  glove.  *  Good-day,  sir  ! '  Name  neither  asked  nor  given  1 
Not  a  hint  about  '  calling  again  ' ! 

"Well,  I  suppose  I  shall  have  another  opportunity  of  seeing 
them.  They  are  going  straight  towards  the  Ocean  House.  No 
doubt  a  brace  of  birds  from  that  extensive  aviary.  Birds  of 
paradise,  too — judging  by  their  fine  feathers  !  Ah  !  the  dark  one. 
Step  like  a  race-horse — eye  like  a  she-eagle ! 

"  Strange  how  the  heart  declares  its  preference  !  Strange  1 
should  think  most  of  her  who  appeared  least  grateful !  Nay,  she 
spoke  almost  superciliously.     I  wonder  if  likes  were  ever  mutual 

"  I  could  love  that  girl — I'm  sure  of  It.  Would  it  be  a  true, 
honest  passion  ?  Not  so  sure  of  that.  She's  not  exactly  the  kind 
I'd  like  to  call  wife.     I  feel  convinced  she'd  aspire  to  wear  the — 

"Talking  of  inexpressibles  makes  me  think  of  my  coat,  hat,  and 
boots.  Suppose,  now,  the  tide  has  swept  them  off?  What  a  figure 
I'd  cut  sneaking  back  to  the  hotel  in  my  shirt-sleeves  !  Hatless 
and  shoeless  to  boot !  It's  just  possible  such  exposi  is  in  store  for 
me.     My  God  ! » 

The  exclamation  was  uttered  with  an  accent  quite  different 


The  Scathed  Retriever,  25 

from  the  speeches  that  preceded  it  These  had  been  muttered 
jocosely,  with  a  smile  upon  his  lips.  Along  with  the  "  My  God  In 
came  a  cloud,  covering  his  whole  countenance. 

The  change  was  explained  by  what  quickly  came  after. 

"  My  pocket-book  !  A  thousand  dollars  in  it !  All  the  money  I 
have  in  the  world  !  If  that's  lost  I'll  cut  a  still  sorrier  figure  at  the 
hotel.  A  long  bill  owing  !  My  papers,  too  !  Some  of  them  of 
great  importance  to  me — deeds  and  documents  !  God  help  me.  if 
they're  gene  !  * 

Once  more  along  the  cliff ;  once  more  descending  the  slope, 
with  as  much  haste  as  if  still  another  damsel  with  "  she-eagle  ** 
eyes  was  screaming  for  help  below  ! 

He  had  reached  the  sea-level,  and  was  turning  along  the 
strand,  when  he  saw  a  dark  object  upon  the  water — about  a 
cable's  length  out  from  the  shore.  It  was  a  small  row-boat,  with 
two  men  in  it. 

It  was  headed  toward  Easton  Beach  ;  but  the  rowers  had 
stopped  pulling,  and  were  sitting  with  oars  unshipped.  They 
were  nearly  opposite  the  cove  out  of  which  he  had  so  lately 
climbed. 

"  What  a  pity  1 n  was  his  reflection.  "  Had  these  fellows  shown 
themselves  but  twenty  minutes  sooner,  they'd  have  saved  me  a 
set  of  sore  bones,  and  the  young  ladies  a  couple  of  shawls  thac 
must  have  cost  them  a  good  round  price — no  doubt  five  hundred 
dollars  apiece  !  The  boat  must  have  been  coming  up  shore  all  the 
time.     How  stupid  of  me  not  to  have  seen  it  ! 

"  What  are  they  stopped  for  now  ?  Ah !  my  coat  and  cap  1 
They  see  them,  and  so  do  I.  Thank  heaven,  my  pocket-book  and 
papers  are  safe  !  *' 

He  was  hastening  on  to  make  them  still  more  secure,  for  the 
tide  was  close  threatening  his  scattered  garments — when  all  at 
once  a  dark  monster-like  form  was  seen  approaching  from  the 
sea,  surging  toward  the  same  point.  As  it  got  into  shallow 
water,  its  body  rose  above  the  surface  discovering  a  huge  New- 
foundland dog ! 

The  animal  had  evidently  come  from  the  boat — had  been  sent 
from  it.  But  for  what  purpose  did  not  strike  the  sportsman  till 
he  saw  the  shaggy  creature  spring  upward  to  the  ledge,  seize  hold 


26  The  Child  Wife. 


of  his  coat  in  its  teeth,  and  then  turning  with  it  plunge  back  into 
the  water  ! 

A  Broadway  frock  of  best  broadcloth  ;  a  thousand  dollars  in 
the  pockets  ;  papers  worth  ten  times  the  amount  1 

"  Heigh  !  heigh  ! "  cried  the  owner,  rushing  on  toward  th«  spot 
where  the  rape  was  being  committed,  "down  with  it,  you  brute  ! 
down  with  it !  drop  it  1" 

"  Fetch  it ! "  came  a  voice  from  the  boat ;  "  come  on,  good 
Bruno!    Fetch  it!" 

The  words  were  followed  by  a  peal  of  laughter  that  rang 
scornfully  along  the  cliffs.  The  voices  of  both  the  boatmen  took 
part  in  it, 

Blacker  than  the  rocks  behind  him  became  the  face  of  the 
sportsman,  who  had  paused  in  silent  surprise. 

Up  to  that  moment  he  had  supposed  that  the  two  men  had  nol 
seen  him,  and  that  the  dog  had  been  sent  to  pick  up  what  mighf 
appear  "  unclaimed  property."  But  the  command  given  to  the 
animal,  with  the  scornful  laugh,  at  once  cured  him  of  his  delusion, 
and  he  turned  toward  them  with  a  scowl  that  might  have  terrified 
bolder  spirits  than  theirs. 

It  did  not  check  his  rising  wrath  to  perceive  that  they  were  a 
brace  of  young  "  bloods  "  out  on  a  pleasuring  excursion.  Perhaps 
all  the  more  did  he  feel  sensible  of  the  insult. 

He  who  had  wandered  far  and  wide;  who  had  tracked 
Comanches  on  the  war-path ;  had  struck  his  sword  against  a 
chevauxde-frise  of  Mexican  bayonets,  to  be  mocked  after  such 
fantastic  fashion,  and  by  such  fellows ! 

"  Command  the  dog  back  !  "  he  shouted,  in  a  voice  that  made 
the  rocks  re-echo.  "  Back  with  him  ;  or,  by  heaven,  you  shall 
both  rue  it  1  " 

"Come  on,  Bruno  !  "  cried  they,  reckless,  now  they  had  com- 
mitted themselves.     "  Good  dog  !     Fetch  it !  fetch  it  1 " 

He  in  the  shirt-sleeves  stood  for  a  moment  irresolute,  because 
feeling  himself  helpless.  The  animal  had  got  out  of  his  reach, 
1 1  would  be  impossible  to  overtake  it.  Equally  so  to  swim  out  to 
the  boat,  and  wreak  his  wrath  upon  the  rowers,  whose  speech 
continued  to  torture  him. 

Though  seeming  to  him  an  age,  his  inaction  was  scarce  of  a 


The  Scathed  Retriever,  27 

second's  continuance.  On  looking  around  to  see  what  might  be 
done,  his  eye  rested  upon  the  gun,  still  lying  upon  the  ledge  where 
he  had  left  it. 

With  an  exulting  shout  he  sprang  toward  the  piece,  ami  again 
held  it  in  his  grasp.  It  was  loaded  with  large  shot ;  for  he  had 
been  sporting  for  water- fowl. 

He  did  not  wait  to  give  warning.  The  scurvy  behaviour  of  the 
fellows  had  released  him  from  all  ceremony ;  and  hastily  raising 
the  piece,  sent  a  shower  of  shot  around  the  shoulders  of  the 
Newfoundland. 

The  dog  dropped  the  coat,  gave  out  a  hideous  growling,  and 
swam,  crippled-like,  toward  the  boat. 

Laughter  no  longer  ran  along  the  cliffs.  It  had  ceased  at  sight 
of  the  gun. 

"  It's  a  double  one,"  said  he  who  grasped  it,  speaking  loud 
enough  for  them  to  hear  him.  "  If  you'll  bring  your  boat  a  little 
nearer,  I  may  treat  you  to  the  second  barrel ! " 

The  bloods  thought  better  than  to  accept  the  invitation.  Their 
joke  had  come  to  a  disagreeable  termination  ;  and  with  rueful 
faces  they  pulled  poor  Bruno  aboard,  and  continued  the  row  so 
regretfully  interrupted. 

Fortunately  for  the  sportsman,  the  tide  was  still  "running,"  so 
that  his  coat  came  ashore — dollars  and  documents  along  with  it. 

He  spent  some  time  in  wringing  out  his  saturated  habiliments, 
and  making  himself  presentable  for  the  hotel.  By  good  luck, 
there  were  no  streets  to  pass  through — the  Ocean  House  being  at 
this  time  separated  only  by  farm  fields  from  the  rocky  shore  that 
had  been  the  scene  of  his  achievements. 

"Adventures  enough  for  one  day  !"  he  muttered  to  himself,  as 
he  approached  the  grand  caravanserai  swarming  with  its  happy 
hundreds. 

He  did  not  know  that  still  another  was  in  store  for  him.  A3 
he  stepped  into  the  long  piazza,  two  gentlemen  were  seen  entering 
at  the  opposite  end.  They  were  followed  by  a  large  dog,  that 
sadly  needed  helping  over  a  stile. 

The  recognition  was  mutual ;  though  only  acknowledged  by  a 
reciprocal  frown,  so  dark  as  not  to  be  dispelled  by  the  cheerful 
gong  at  that  moment  sounding  the-  summons  to  dinner. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

A    LOVING    COUPLE. 

M  Married  for  love  !  Hach  !  fool  that  I've  been ! " 

The  man  who  muttered  these  words  was  seated  with  elbows 
resting  upon  a  table,  and  hands  thrust  distractedly  through  his 
hair. 

"  Fool  that  I've  been,  and  for  a  similar  reason  ! w 
The  rejoinder,  in  a  female  voice,  came  from  an  inner  apartment 
At  the  same  instant  the  door,  already  ajar,  was  spitefully  pushed 
open,  disclosing  the  speaker  to  view  :  a  woman  of  splendid  form 
and  features,  not  the  less  so  that  both  were  quivering  with  indig- 
nation. 

The  man  started,  and  looked  up  with  an  air  of  embarrassment 
"  You  heard  me,  Frances  ?  "  he  said,  in  a  tone  half-surly,  half- 
ishamed. 

u  I  heard  you,  Richard,"  answered  the  woman,  sweeping  majes- 
tically into  the  room.  "  A  pretty  speech  for  a  man  scarce  twelve 
months  married — for  you !     Villain  1  * 

"  That  name  is  welcome  ! "  doggedly  retorted  the  man.     u  It's 
enough  to  make  one  a  villain  1 n 
"What's  enough,  sir?" 

"  To  think  that  but  for  you  I  might  have  had  my  thousands  a 
year,  with  a  titled  lady  for  my  wife ! " 

"  Not  worse  than  to  think  that  but  for  you  I  might  have  had 
my  tens  of  thousands,  with  a  lord  for  my  husband  !  ay,  a  coronet 
on  my  crown,  where  you  are  barely  able  to  stick  a  bonnet  1  * 
"  Bah  !     I  wish  you  had  your  lord." 
"  And  bah  to  you  1     I  wish  you  had  your  lady." 
The  dissatisfied  benedict,  finding  himself  more  than  matched 
in  the  game  of  recrimination,  dropped  back  into  his  chair,  re- 
planted his  elbows  on  the  table,  and  resumed  the  torturing  of  his 
hair. 


A  Loving  Couple.  29 

Back  and  forth  over  the  floor  of  the  apartment  paced  the  out- 
raged wife,  like  a  tigress  chafed,  but  triumphant 

Man  and  wife,  they  were  a  remarkable  couple.  By  nature 
both  were  highly  endowed;  the  man  handsome  as  Apollo,  the 
woman  beautiful  as  Venus.  Adorned  with  moral  grace,  they 
might  have  challenged  comparison  with  anything  on  earth.  In 
the  scene  described,  it  was  more  like  Lucifer  talking  to  Juno  en- 
raged. 

The  conversation  was  in  the  English  tongue,  the  accent  was 
English,  the  speakers  apparently  belonging  to  that  country — both 
of  them.  This  impression  was  confirmed  by  some  articles  of 
travelling  gear,  trunks  and  portmanteaus  of>*English  manufacture, 
scattered  over  the  floor.  But  the  apartment  was  in  the  second 
storey  of  a  second-class  boarding-house  in  the  city  of  New  York. 

The  explanation  is  easy  enough.  The  amiable  couple  had  but 
lately  landed  from  an  Atlantic  steamer.  The  "  O.  K."  of  the 
Custom  House  chalk  was  still  legible  on  their  luggage. 

Looking  upon  the  pair  of  strange  travellers — more  especially 
after  listening  to  what  they  have  said — one  skilled  in  the  physi- 
ognomy of  English  life  would  have  made  the  following  reflec- 
tions : — 

The  man  has  evidently  been  born  ua  gentleman,"  and  as 
evidently  brought  up  in  a  bad  school.  He  has  been  in  the  British 
army.  About  this  there  can  be  no  mistake ;  no  more  than  that 
he  is  now  out  of  it.  He  still  carries  its  whisker,  though  not  its 
commission.  The  latter  he  has  lost  by  selling  out ;  but  not  until 
after  receiving  a  hint  from  his  colonel,  or  a  "  round  robin  "  from 
his  brother  officers,  requesting  him  to  "  resign."  If  ever  rich,  he 
has  long  since  squandered  his  wealth ;  perhaps  even  the  money 
obtained  for  his  commission.  He  is  now  poor.  His  looks  pro- 
claim him  an  adventurer. 

Those  of  the  woman  carry  to  a  like  conclusion,  as  regards 
)  herself.  Her  air  and  action,  the  showy  style  of  her  dress,  a  certain 
f  recklessness  observable  in  the  cast  of  her  countenance,  bring  the 
beholder,  who  has  once  stood  alongside  "  Rotten  How,"  back 
to  the  border  of  that  world-renowned  ride.  In  the  fair  Fan  he 
sees  the  type  of  the  "pretty  horse-breaker" — the  "Anonyma" 
of  the  season. 


30  The  Child  Wife. 

It  is  an  oft-repeated  experience.  A  handsome  man,  a  beautiful 
woman,  both  equally  heart-wicked,  inspiring  one  another  with  a 
transient  passion,  that  lasts  long  enough  to  make  man  and  wife 
of  them,  but  rarely  outlives  the  honeymoon.  Such  was  the  story 
of  the  couple  in  question. 

The  stormy  scene  described  was  far  from  being  the  first.  It 
was  but  one  of  the  squalls  almost  daily  occurring  between  them, 

The  calm  succeeding  such  a  violent  gust  could  not  be  con- 
tinuous. A  cloud  so  dark  could  not  be  dissipated  without  a 
further  discharge  of  electricity. 

It  came ;  the  last  speaker,  as  if  least  satisfied,  resuming  the 
discourse. 

"  And  supposing  you  had  married  your  lady — I  know  whom  you 

mean — that  old  scratch,  Lady  C ,  what  a  nice  time  the  two 

of  you  would  have  had  of  it !  She  could  only  have  kissed  you 
at  the  risk  of  losing  her  front  teeth,  or  swallowing  them.  Ha  !  ha ! 
ha!" 

"  Lady  C be  hanged !     I  could  have  had  half  a  score  of 

titled  ladies;  some  of  them  as  young,  and  just  as  good-looking, 
as  you  ! " 

a  Boasting  braggart !  'Tis  false,  and  you  know  it !  Good- 
looking  as  me  I  How  you've  changed  your  tune  !  You  know  I 
was  called  the  '  Belle  of  Brompton  ! '  Thank  heaven,  I  don't 
need  you  to  satisfy  me  of  my  good  looks.  Men  of  ten  times  your 
taste  have  pronounced  upon  them  ;   and  may  yet  /" 

The  last  speech  was  delivered  in  front  of  a  cheval  glass,  before 
which  the  speaker  had  stopped,  as  if  to  admire  her  person. 

Certainly  the  glass  gave  out  an  image  that  did  not  contradict 
what  she  had  said. 

"  May  yet ! "  echoed  the  satiated  rake  in  a  drawl,  that  betokened 
either  indifference,  or  its  assumption.  "  I  wish  some  of  them 
would /" 

"  Indeed  1     Then  some  of  them  shall  t" 

"  Oh  !  I'm  agreeable.  Nothing  would  give  me  greater  pleasure. 
Thank  God !  we've  got  into  a  country  whose  people  take  a 
common-sense  view  of  these  questions,  and  where  divorce  can 
be  obtained,  not  only  on  the  quiet,  but  cheaper  than  the  licence 
itself!     So  far  from  standing  in  your  way,  madam,  I'll  do  all  1 


A  Laving  CoupU.  31 

can  to  assist  you.  I  think  we  can  honestly  plead  '  incompatibility 
of  temper  ■  ?  " 

"  She'd  be  an  angel  that  couldn't  plead  that  with  you." 

"There's  no  danger,  then,  of  your  being  denied  the  plea, 
unless  fallen  angels  be  excepted." 

"  Mean  insulter !  Oh,  mercy  1  to  think  I've  thrown  myself  away 
on  this  worthless  man  ! n 

"  Thrown  yourself  away  ?  Ha  1  ha !  ha !  What  were  you  when 
I  found  you  ?  A  waif,  if  not  worse.  The  darkest  day  of  my  life 
was  that  on  which  I  picked  you  up  1 " 

"  Scoundrel ! n 

The  term"  scoundrel"  is  the  sure  and  close  precursor  of  a  climax. 
When  passed  between  two  gentlemen,  it  not  unfrequently  leads 
to  a  mutual  pulling  of  noses.  From  a  lady  to  a  gentleman  the 
result  is  of  course  different,  though  in  any  case  it  conducts  to  a 
serious  turn  in  the  conversation.  Its  effect  in  the  present  instance 
was  to  end  it  altogether. 

With  only  an  exclamation  for  rejoinder,  the  husband  sprang  to 
his  feet,  and  commenced  pacing  up  and  down  one  side  of  the 
room.  The  wife,  already  engaged  in  like  perambulation,  had 
possession  of  the  other. 

In  silence  they  crossed  and  recrossed ;  at  intervals  exchanging 
angry  glances,  like  a  tiger  and  tigress,  making  the  tour  of  their 
cage. 

For  ten  minutes  or  more  was  this  mute,  unsocial  promenade 
continued. 

The  man  was  the  first  to  tire  of  it,  and  once  more  resuming  his 
seat,  he  took  a  "  regalia  "  from  his  case,  set  fire  to  the  weed,  and 
commenced  smoking. 

The  woman,  as  if  determined  not  to  be  outdone  in  the  way  of 
indifference,  produced  her  cigar-case,  selected  from  it  a  tiny 
"queen,"  and,  sinking  down  into  a  rocking-chair,  sent  forth  a 
cloud  of  smoke  that  soon  rendered  her  almost  as  invisible  as  Juno 
in  her  nimbus. 

There  was  no  longer  an  exchange  of  glances — it  was  scarce 
possible — and  for  ten  minutes  more  not  any  of  speech.  The  wife 
was  silently  nursing  her  wrath,  while  the  husband  appeared  to 
be  engaged  on  some  abstruse  problem  that  occupied  all  his  in- 


$2  The  Child  Wife. 


tellect  At  length  an  exclamation,  escaping  involuntarily  from 
his  lips,  seemed  to  declare  its  solution  ;  while  the  cheerful  cast  of 
his  countenance,  just  perceptible  through  the  smoke,  told  of  his 
having  reached  a  conclusion  that  was  satisfactory  to  him. 

Taking  the  regalia  from  between  his  teeth,  and  puffing  away 
the  cloud  that  intervened,  he  leant  toward  his  wife,  at  the  same 
time  pronouncing  her  name  in  diminutive — 

"Fan!" 

The  form,  with  the  accent  in  which  it  was  uttered,  seemed  to 
say  that  on  his  side  the  storm  had  blown  over.  His  chafed  spirit 
had  become  tranquillized  under  the  influence  of  the  nicotine. 

The  wife,  as  if  similarly  affected,  removed  the  "queen"  from 
her  lips ;  and  in  a  tone  that  smacked  of  forgiveness,  gave  out  the 
rejoinder: 

"Dick!" 

"An  idea  has  occurred  to  me,"  said  he,  resuming  the  con- 
versation in  a  shape  entirely  new.     "  A  grand  idea  ! " 

"  Of  its  grandeur  I  have  my  doubts.  I  shall  be  better  able  to 
judge  when  you've  imparted  it.  You  intend  doing  that,  I  per- 
ceive." 

"  I  do,"  he  answered,  without  taking  notice  of  the  sarcasm." 

"  Let's  hear  it,  then." 

"Well,  Fan,  if  there's  anything  in  this  world  clearer  than 
another,  it's  that  by  getting  married  we've  both  made  a  mucker 
of  it" 

"  That's  clear  as  daylight — to  me  at  least" 

"Then  you  can't  be  offended  if  I  take  a  similar  view  of  the 
question,  We  married  one  another  for  love.  There  we  did  a 
stupid  thing,  since  neither  of  us  could  afford  it." 

"  I  suppose  I  know  all  that.     Tell  me  something  new." 

*  More  than  stupid,"  pursued  the  worthless  husband;  "it  war 
an  act  of  absolute  madness ! " 

"  Most  certainly,  on  my  part" 

"  On  the  part  of  both  of  us.  Mind  you,  I  don't  say  I  repent 
making  you  my  wife.  Only  in  one  way,  and  that  is  because  I've 
spoiled  your  chances  in  life.  I  am  aware  you  could  have  married 
richer  men." 

"  Oh,  you  admit  that,  do  you?* 


A  Loving  Couple. 


"I  do.     And  you  must  admit  I  could  have  married   rich 
women." 

"  Lady  Scratch,  for  example." 

"No  matter.  Lady  Scratch  could  have  kept  me  from  this  hard 
scratch  for  a  living,  which  promises  to  be  still  harder.  You  know 
there's  no  resource  left  me  but  the  little  skill  I've  acquired  in 
manipulating  pasteboard.  I've  come  over  here  under  the  pleasant 
hallucination  I  should  find  plenty  of  pigeons,  and  that  the  hawks 
only  existed  on  our  side  of  the  Atlantic.  Well,  I've  been  round 
with  my  introductions,  and  what's  the  result?  To  discover  that 
the  dullest  flat  in  New  York  would  be  a  sharp  in  the  saloons  of 
London.  I've  dropped  a  hundred  pounds  already,  and  don't  see 
much  chance  of  taking  them  up  again." 

"  And  what  do  you  see,  Dick  ?     What's  this  grand  idea  ?  " 

"  Are  you  prepared  to  listen  to  a  proposal  ?  " 

"  How  condescending  of  you  to  ask  me  !  Let  me  hear  it 
Whether  I  may  feel  inclined  to  agree  to  it  is  another  thing." 

"  Well,  my  dear  Fan,  your  own  words  have  suggested  it,  so 
you  can't  reproach  me  for  originating  it." 

"  If  it  be  an  idea,  you  needn't  fear  that  What  words,  may  I 
ask?" 

11  You  said  you  wished  I  had  married  my  lady.' 

"  I  did.     What  is  there  in  that  ?  " 

"  More  than  you  think  for.     A  whole  world  of  meaning," 

"  I  meant  what  I  said." 

"  In  spite  only,  Fan." 

*'  In  earnest" 

"  Ha,  ha !     I  know  you  too  well  for  that" 

'Do  you?  You  flatter  yourself,  I  think.  Perhaps  you  majr 
some  day  find  your  mistake." 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it.  You  love  me  too  well,  Fan,  as  I  do  you.  It 
is  just  for  that  I  am  going  to  make  the  proposal." 

"  Out  with  it !  I  shan't  like  you  any  the  better  for  thus  tan- 
talizing me.  Come,  Dick;  you  want  me  to  grant  something? 
What  is  it?" 

"  Give  me  your  permission  to ' 

what?" 

ried  again  /* 


34  The  Child  Wife 


The  wife  of  twelve  months  started,  as  if  struck  by  a  shot.  In 
her  glance  there  was  anger  and  surprise,  only  subdued  by  inter- 
rogation. 

"  Are  you  in  earnest,  Dick  ?  n 

The  inquiry  was  mechanical.     She  saw  that  he  was. 

"  Wait  till  you've  heard  me  out,"  he  rejoined,  proceeding  to 
the  explanation. 

She  waited. 

"  What  I  propose,  then,  is  this  :  You  leave  me  free  to  get 
martied  again.  More  than  that,  give  me  your  help  to  accomplish 
it — for  our  mutual  benefit.  It's  the  very  country  for  such  a 
scheme ;  and  I  flatter  myself  I'm  the  very  man  who  may  bring 
it  to  a  satisfactory  conclusion.  These  Yankees  have  been  growing 
rich.  There  are  now  scores — hundreds  of  heiresses  among  them. 
Strange  if  I  can't  pick  one  of  them  up  I  They  must  either  be 
daintier  than  you,  Fan,  or  else  I've  lost  my  attractions." 

The  appeal  to  her  vanity,  skilful  though  it  was,  failed  to  elicit 
a  rejoinder.  She  remained  silent,  permitting  her  husband  to  con- 
tinue his  explanation.     He  continuea  . 

"  It's  no  use  shutting  our  eyes  to  the  situation.  We've  both 
been  speaking  the  truth.  We've  made  fools  of  ourselves.  Your 
beauty  has  been  the  means  of  spoiling  my  chances  in  life ;  and 
my — well,  good  looks,  if  I  must  say  it — have  done  the  same  for 
you.  It's  been  a  mutual  love,  and  a  reciprocal  ruin — in  short,  a 
sell  on  both  sides." 

"  True  enough.     Goon!" 

"  The  prospect  before  us  !  I,  the  son  of  a  poor  prebend  ;  you 
— well,  it's  no  use  to  talk  of  family  affairs.  We  came  over  here 
in  hopes  of  bettering  our  condition.  The  land  of  milk  and  honey 
turns  out  to  be  but  gall  and  bitterness.  We've  but  one  hundred 
pounds  left.     When  that's  gone,  what  next,  Fan  ?" 

Fan  could  not  tell. 

"  We  may  expect  but  slight  consideration  for  gentility  here," 
continued  the  adventurer.  "  Our  cash  once  spent,  what  can  I 
do — or  what  you  ?  I  know  of  nothing,  except  to  take  hold  of  the 
delicate  ribbons  of  a  street  hack ;  while  you  must  attune  your 
musical  ear  to  the  tinkle  of  a  sewing-machine,  or  the  creaking  of 
a  mangle.     By  heaven !  there'll  be  no  help  for  it  1 " 


A  Loving  CoupU.  35 

The  ci-devant  belle  of  Brompton,  appalled  by  the  prospect, 
started  up  from  the  rocking-chair,  and  once  more  commenced 
pacing  the  room. 

Suddenly  she  stopped,  and,  turning  to  her  husband,  inquired  : 

"  Do  you  intend  to  be  true  to  me,  Dick  ?  " 

The  question  was  put  in  an  eager,  earnest  tone. 

Equally  earnest  was  the  answer  : 

"  Of  course  I  do.  How  can  you  doubt  me,  Fan  ?  We're 
both  alike  interested  in  the  speculation.  You  may  trust  me  as 
steel ! " 

"  I  agree  to  it,  then,  Dick.  But  dread  steel  if  you  betray 
me!" 

Dick  answered  the  threat  with  a  light  laugh ;  at  the  same  time 
imprinting  a  Judas  kiss  on  the  lips  that  had  pronounced  it  i 


CHAPTER  VII. 

A   DUTIFUL   DAUGHTER. 

*  An  officer  iust  returned  from  Mexico — a  captain,  or  something 
of  the  sort,  in  one  of  the  regiments  raised  for  the  war.  Of  course, 
a  nobody ! " 

It  was  the  storekeeper's  relict  who  spoke. 

u  Did  you  hear  his  name,  mamma  ?  "  murmured  Julia. 

"  Certainly,  my  dear.  The  clerk  pointed  it  out  on  the  hotel 
register — Maynard." 

"  Maynard  !  If  it  be  the  Captain  Maynard  spoken  of  in  the 
papers,  he's  not  such  a  nobody.     At  least  the  despatches  do  not 

say  so.     Why,  it  was  he  who  led  the  forlorn  hope  at  C , 

besides  being  first  over  the  bridge  at  some  other  place  with  an 
unpronounceable  name  ! " 

"  Stuff  about  forlorn  hopes  and  bridges  1  That  won't  help  him, 
now  that  he  is  out  of  the  service,  and  his  regiment  disbanded. 
Of  course  he'll  be  without  either  pension  or  pay,  besides  a  soupfon 
of  his  having  empty  pockets.  I  got  so  much  out  of  the  servant 
who  waits  upon  him." 

"  He  is  to  be  pitied  for  that" 

"  Pity  him  as  much  as  you  like,  my  dear ;  but  don't  let  it  go 
any  further.  Heroes  are  all  very  well  in  their  way,  when  they've 
got  the  dollars  to  back  'em  up.  Without  these  they  don't  count 
for  much  now-a-days ;  and  rich  girls  don't  go  marrying  them  any 
more." 

"  Ha  1  ha  1  ha  1  Who  thinks  of  marrying  him?"  Daughter 
and  niece  simultaneously  asked  the  question. 

"No  flirtations  neither,"  gravely  rejoined  Mrs.  Gird  wood.  "I 
won't  allow  them — certainly  not  with  him." 

"And  wiiy  not  with  him,  as  much  as  any  one  else,  most 
honoured  mother  ?  " 

"  Many  reasons.  We  don't  know  who  or  what  he  may  be 
He  don't  appear  to  have  the  slightest  acquaintance  with  any  one 


A  Dutiful  Daughter.  37 

in  the   place;   and  no   one  is  acquainted  with   him.     He's  a 
stranger  in  this  country,  and  believed  to  be  Irish." 

"  Oh,  aunt !  I  should  not  think  any  the  worse  of  him  for  that 
My  own  father  was  Irish." 

"  Whatever  he  may  be,  he's  a  brave  man,  and  a  gallant  one," 
quietly  rejoined  Julia. 

"  And  a  handsome  one,  too  ! "  added  Cornelia,  with  a  slj 
glance  towards  her  cousin. 

"I  should  think,"  pursued  Julia,  "that  he  who  has  climbed  a 
scaling-ladder — to  say  nothing  about  the  bridge — and  who  after- 
ward, at  the  risk  of  his  life,  pulls  two  not  very  light  young  ladies 
up  the  face  of  a  perpendicular  precipice,  might  dispense  with  any 
further  introduction  to  society ;  even  to  the  J.'s,  the  L.'s,  and  the 
B.'s — the  '  cream,'  as  they  call  themselves." 

"Pff!"  scornfully  exclaimed  the  mother.  "Any  gentleman 
would  have  done  the  same ;  and  would  have  done  it  for  any  lady. 
Why,  he  made  no  difference  between  you  and  Keziah,  who  is 
almost  as  heavy  as  both  of  you  in  a  bundle  !  " 

The  remark  caused  the  two  young  ladies  to  break  forth  into  a 
fit  of  laughter ;  for  they  remembered  at  the  time  they  had  been 
saved  from  their  peril  the  ludicrous  look  of  the  negress  as  she  was 
drawn  up  to  the  crest  "of  the  cliff.  Had  she  not  been  the  last  in 
the  ascent,  their  remembrance  of  it  might  have  been  less  vivid. 

*  Well,  girls ;  I'm  glad  to  see  that  you  enjoy  it.  You  may 
laugh  as  much  as  you  like ;  but  I'm  in  earnest.  There  must  be 
no  marrying  in  such  a  quarter  as  that,  nor  flirting  either.  I  don't 
want  either  of  you  talked  about.  As  for  you,  Corneel,  I  don't 
pretend  to  exercise  any  control  over  you.  Of  course  you  can  act 
as  you  please." 

"  And  I  cannot  ?  "  quickly  inquired  the  imperious  Julia. 

"Yes  you  can,  my  dear.  Marry  Captain  Maynard,  or  any 
other  man  who  suits  your  fancy.  But  if  you  do  so  without  my 
consent,  you  may  make  up  your  mind  to  be  contented  with  your 
pin-money.  Remember  that  the  million  left  by  your  father  is 
mine  for  life." 

"Indeed!" 

"Ay  !  And  if  you  act  against  my  wishes,  I  shall  live  thirty 
fears  longer,  to  spite  you — fifty  if  I  can  J " 


38  The  Child  Wife. 

"  Weli,  mamma ;  I  can't  say  but  that  you're  candid.  A 
charming  prospect,  should  it  please  me  to  disobey  you  ! " 

"But  you  won't,  Julia?"  ?aid  Mrs.  Girdwood,  coaxingly, 
"  you  won't.  You  know  better  than  that :  else  your  dear 
mother's  teaching  has  been  so  much  waste  time  and  trouble. 
But  talking  of  time,"  continued  the  "dear  mother,"  as  she  drew  a 
jewelled  watch  from  her  belt,  "in  two  hours  the  ball  will  begin. 
Go  to  your  room,  and  get  dressed." 

Cornelia,  obedient  to  the  command,  tripped  out  into  the  cor- 
ridor, and,  gliding  along  it,  turned  into  the  apartment  occupied  by 
herself  and  cousin. 

Julia,  on  the  contrary,  walked  on  to  the  balcony  outside. 

"  Plague  take  the  ball ! "  said  she,  raising  her  arms  in  a  yawn. 
"  I'd  a  thousand  times  rather  go  to  bed  ! " 

"And  why,  you  silly  child?"  inquired  her  mother,  who  had 
followed  her  out. 

11  Mother,  you  know  why  1  It  will  be  just  the  same  as  at  the 
last  one — all  alone  among  those  impertinent  people.  I  hate 
them  !     How  I  should  like  to  humiliate  them  I  * 

"  To  night  you  shall  do  that,  my  dear."    ' 

"  How,  mamma  ?  " 

"  By  wearing  my  diamond  head-dress.  The  last  present  your 
dear  father  gave  me.  It  cost  him  a  twenty  thousand  dollar 
check  !  If  we  could  only  ticket  the  price  upon  the  diamonds, 
how  they  would  glitter  in  their  envious  eyes.  Never  mind  ;  I 
should  think  they'll  be  sharp  enough  to  guess  it.  Now,  my  girl, 
that  will  humiliate  them  !  " 

"  Not  much." 

"  Not  much  !  Twenty  thousand  dollars  worth  of  diamonds ! 
There  isn't  such  a  tiara  in  the  States.  There  won't  be  anything 
like  it  at  the  ball.  As  diamonds  are  in  full  fashion  now,  it  will 
give  you  no  end  of  a  triumph ;  at  all  events,  enough  to  satisfy 
you  for  the  present.  Perhaps  when  we  come  back  here  again,  we 
may  have  the  diamonds  set  in  a  still  more  attractive  shape." 

"How?" 

11  In  a  coronet  /"  replied  the  mother,  whispering  the  words  in 
her  daughter's  ear. 

Julia  Girdwood  started,  as  if  the  speech  had  been  an  interpre- 


A  Dutiful  Daughter.  39 

tation  of  her  own  thought.  Brought  up  amid  boundless  wealth, 
she  had  been  indulged  in  every  luxury  for  which  gold  may  be 
exchanged ;  but  there  was  one  which  even  gold  could  not  pur- 
chase—  an  entree  into  that  mystic  circle  called  "society" — a 
mingling  with  the  crime  de  la  crane. 

Even  in  the  free-and-easy  atmosphere  of  a  watering-place,  she , 
felt  that  she  was  excluded.  She  had  discovered,  as  had  also  her 
mother,  that  Newport  was  too  fashionable  for  the  family  of  a 
New  York  retail  storekeeper,  however  successful  he  may  have 
been  in  disposing  of  his  commodities.  What  her  mother  had 
just  said  was  like  the  realization  of  a  vague  vision  already  floating 
in  her  fancy ;  and  the  word  "  coronet "  had  more  effect  in  spoil- 
ing the  chances  of  Captain  Maynard,  than  would  have  been  the 
longest  maternal  lecture  on  any  other  text 

The  mother  well  knew  this.  She  had  not  trained  her  dear 
Julia  to  romantic  disobedience.  But  at  that  moment  it  occurred 
to  her  that  the  nail  wanted  clinching;  and  she  proceeded  to 
hammer  it  home. 

"A  coronet,  my  love ;  and  why  not  ?  There  are  lords  in 
England,  and  counts  in  France,  scores  of  them,  glad  to  grasp  at 
such  expectations  as  yours.  A  million  of  dollars,  and  beauty 
besides — you  needn't  blush,  daughter — two  things  not  often 
tacked  together,  nor  to  be  picked  up  every  day  in  the  streets — 
either  of  London  or  Paris.  A  prize  for  a  prince  !  And  now, 
Julia,  one  word  more.  I  shall  be  candid,  and  tell  you  the  truth. 
It  is  for  this  purpose,  and  this  only,  I  intend  taking  you  to 
Earope.  Promise  to  keep  your  heart  tree,  and  give  your  hand  to 
the  man  I  select  for  you,  and  on  your  wedding-day  I  shall  make 
over  one-half  of  the  estate  left  by  your  late  father !  " 

The  girl  hesitated.  Perhaps  she  was  thinking  of  her  late 
rescuer  ?  But  if  Maynard  was  in  her  mind,  the  interest  he  had 
gained  there  could  only  have  been  slight — certainly  not  strong 
enough  to  hold  its  place  against  the  tempting  terms  thus  held  out 
to  her.  Besides,  Maynard  might  not  care  for  her.  She  had  no 
reason  to  suppose  that  he  did.  And  ynder  this  doubt,  she  had 
less  difficulty  in  shaping  her  reply. 

"  1  am  serious  upon  this  matter,"  urged  the  ambitious  mother; 
"Quite  as   much  as  you  am  I  disgusted   with  the  position  we 


40  TJie  Child  Wife. 


hold  here.  To  think  that  the  most  worthless  descendants  of  ore 
of  'the  old  signers'  should  deem  it  a  condescension  to  marry  my 
daughter !     Ach  !  not  one  of  them  shall — with  my  consent" 

'*  Without  that,  mother,  I  shall  not  marry." 

"Good  girl!  you  shall  have  the  wedding  gift  I  promised  you. 
And  to-night  you  shall  not  only  wear  my  diamonds,  but  I  make 
you  Sree  to  call  them  your  own.     Go  in — get  them  on  ! " 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

A   NOBLEMAN    INCOG. 

The  strange  dialogue  thus  terminated  took  place  in  front  of  the 
window  of  Mrs.  Girdwood's  apartment.  It  was  in  the  night ;  a 
night  starless  and  calm,  and  of  course  favourable  to  the  eaves- 
droppers. 

There  was  one. 

In  the  room  right  above  was  a  gentleman  who  had  that  day 
taken  possession. 

He  had  come  by  the  night-boat  from  New  York,  and  entered 
his  name  on  the  register  as  "  Swinton,"  with  the  modest  prefix  of 
Mr.  Attached  were  the  words  "and  servant" — the  latter  repre- 
sented by  a  dark-haired,  dark-complexioned  youth,  dressed  after 
the  fashion  of  a  footman,  or  valet  du  voyage. 

To  Newport,  Mr.  Swinton  appeared  to  be  a  stranger;  and  had 
spent  most  of  that  day  in  exploring  the  little  city  founded  by 
Coddington,  and  full  of  historic  recollections. 

Though  conversing  with  nearly  everybody  he  met,  he  evidently 
knew  no  one  ;  and  as  evidently  no  one  knew  him. 

Want  of  politeness  to  a  stranger  would  not  comport  with  the 
character  of  Newport  people  ;  especially  when  that  stranger  had 
all  the  appearance  of  an  accomplished  gentleman,  followed  at 
respectful  distance  by  a  well-dressed  and  obsequious  servant. 

Those  with  whom  he  came  in  contact  had  but  one  thought : 

"A  distinguished  visitor." 

There  was  nothing  in  the  appearance  of  Mr.  Swinton  to  con- 
tradict the  supposition.  He  was  a  man  who  had  seen  some 
thirty  summers,  with  no  signs  to  show  that  they  had  been  un- 
pleasantly spent.  Amidst  his  glossy  curls  of  dark  auburn  colour, 
the  eye  could  not  detect  a  single  strand  of  gray ;  and  if  the  crow 
had  set  its  claw  upon  his  face,  the  track  could  not  be  observed 
under  a  well-cultivated  whisker  uniting  to  the  moustache  upon 


42  The  Child  Wife. 


his   lips — in    short   the   facial    tonsure   which    distinguishes   the 
nabilue  of  the  Horse  Guards.     There  could  be  no  mistaking  him 
for  any  other  than  a  "  Britishei  ";  and  as  such  was  he  set  down 
both  by  the  citizens  of  the  town,  and  the  guests  at  the  hotel. 

The  meal  called  "  tea-supper "  being  over,  and  the  stranger, 
having  nothing  better  to  do,  was  leaning  out  of  the  window  of  his 
sleeping  room,  on  the  fourth  storey — tranquilly  smoking  a  cigar. 

A  conversation  that  occurred  between  himself  and  his  servant — 
exhibiting  on  the  one  side  condescension,  on  the  other  a  strange 
familiarity — need  not  be  repeated.  It  had  ended ;  and  the  ser- 
vant had  thrown  himself,  sans  fafon,  on  a  sofa;  while  the  master, 
with  arms  resting  on  the  window-sill,  continued  to  inspire  the 
perfume  of  the  nicotian  weed,  along  with  the  iodized  air  that 
came  up  from  the  alga  of  the  ocean. 

The  tranquil  scene  was  favourable  to  reflection,  and  thus  Mr. 
Swinton  reflected  : 

"  Deuced  nice  place  !  Devilish  pretty  girls  !  Hope  Til  find 
one  of  them  who's  got  money,  and  command  of  it  as  well.  Sure 
to  be  some  old  hag  here  with  a  well-filled  stocking,  though  it 
may  take  time  to  discover  it.  Let  me  get  a  glance  at  her  cornu- 
copia, and  if  I  don't  turn  the  small  end  upward,  then — then  I 
shall  believe  what  I  have  heard  of  these  Yankee  dames  :  that 
they  hold  their  purse-strings  tighter  than  do  their  simple  cousins 
of  England.  Several  heiresses  about,  I've  heard.  One  or  two 
with  something  like  a  million  a  piece — dollars,  of  course.  Five 
dollars  to  the  pound.  Let  me  see  !  A  million  of  dollars  makes 
two  hundred  thousand  pounds.  Well !  that  would  do,  or  even 
the  half  of  it.  I  wonder  if  that  good-looking  girl,  with  the  ma 
ternal  parent  attached  to  her,  has  got  any  blunt  ?  A  little  love 
mixed  with  the  play  would  make  my  game  all  the  more  agreeable 
Ah !  What's  below  ?  The  shadows  of  women  from  an  open 
window,  the  occupants  of  the  apartment  underneath.  Talking 
they  are.  If  they  would  only  come  out  on  the  balcony,  there 
would  be  some  chance  of  my  hearing  them.  I'm  just  in  the 
humour  for  listening  to  a  little  scandal ;  and  if  they're  anything 
like  their  sex  on  the  other  side  of  the  Atlantic,  that's  sure  to 
be  the  theme.     By  Jove !    they're  coming  out  !     Just  to  oblige 


A   Nobleman  Incog.  43 


It  was  just  at  this  moment  that  Cornelia  retired  to  her  room,  and 
Mrs.  Girdwood,  following  her  daughter,  took  stand  upon  the 
balcony  to  continue  the  conversation  which  had  been  carried  on 
inside. 

Favoured  by  the  calm  night,  and  the  natural  law  of  acoustics, 
Mr.  Swinton  heard  every  word  that  was  said — even  to  the  softest 
whisper. 

In  order  to  secure  himself  against  being  seen,  he  had  with- 
drawn behind  the  Venetian  shutter  of  his  own  window,  and  stood 
with  his  ear  against  the  open  lath-work,  listening  with  all  the 
intentness  of  a  spy. 

When  the  dialogue  came  to  an  end,  he  craned  out,  and  saw 
that  the  young  lady  had  gone  inside,  but  that  the  mother  still 
remained  standing  in  the  balcony. 

Once  more  quietly  drawing  back,  and  summoning  the  valet  to 
his  side,  he  talked  for  some  minutes  in  a  low,  hurried  tone — as  if 
giving  the  servant  some  instructions  of  an  important  nature. 

Then  putting  on  his  hat,  and  throwing  a  light  surtout  over  his 
shoulders,  he  hastened  out  of  the  room. 

The  servant  followed ;  but  not  until  an  interval  had  elapsed. 

In  a  few  seconds  after,  the  Englishman  might  have  been  seen 
sauntering  out  upon  the  balcony  with  a  careless  air,  and  taking 
his  stand  within  a  few  feet  of  where  the  rich  widow  stood  leaning 
over  the  rail. 

He  made  no  attempt  to  address  her.  Without  introduction, 
there  would  have  been  a  certain  rudeness  in  it.  Nor  was  his 
face  toward  her,  but  to  the  sea,  as  if  he  had  stopped  to  contem- 
plate the  light  upon  the  Cormorant  Rock,  gleaming  all  the  more 
brilliantly  from  the  contrasted  darkness  of  the  night 

At  that  moment  a  figure  of  short  stature  appeared  behind  him, 
giving  a  slight  cough,  as  if  to  attract  his  attention.  It  was  the 
servant 

"  My  lord,"  said  the  latter,  speaking  in  a  low  tone — though 
loud  enough  to  be  heard  by  Mrs.  Girdwood. 

"  Aw — Fwank — what  is  it  ?  " 

"  What  dress  will  your  lordship  wear  at  the  ball  ?  * 

"  Aw — aw — plain  bwack,  of  cawse.     A  white  chawker." 

"  What  gloves,  your  lordship  ?     White  or  straw  ?  " 


44  The  Child  Wife. 


"  Stwaw — stwaw." 

The  servant,  touching  his  hat,  retired. 

u  His  lordship,"  as  Mr.  Swinton  appeared  to  be,  returned  to 
his  tranquil  contemplation  of  the  light  upon  Cormorant  Rock. 

There  was  no  longer  tranquillity  for  the  relict  of  the  retail 
storekeeper.  Those  magic  words,  "  my  lord,"  had  set  her  soul  in 
a  flutter.     A  live  lord  within  six  feet  of  her.     Gracious  me  ! 

It  is  the  lady's  privilege  to  speak  first,  as  also  to  break  through 
the  boundaries  of  reserve.  And  of  this  Mrs.  Girdwood  was  not 
slow  to  avail  herself. 

"  You  are  a  stranger,  sir,  I  presume — to  our  country,  as  well  as 
to  Newport  ?  " 

"  Aw — yes,  madam — indeed,  yes.  I  came  to  yaw  beautiful 
country  by  the  last  steemaw.  I  arrived  at  Noopawt  this  morning, 
by  bawt  from  Nooyawk." 

"  I  hope  your  lordship  will  like  Newport  It  is  our  most 
fashionable  watering-place." 

"  Aw  ;  sawtingly  I  shall — sawtingly.  But,  madam,  you  adwess 
me  as  yaw  ludship.  May  I  ask  why  I  have  the  honaw  to  be  so 
entitled  ?  " 

"  Oh,  sir;  how  could  I  avoid  giving  you  the  title,  after  hearing 
your  servant  so  address  you  ?  ■ 

"  Aw,  Fwank,  stoopid  fella w  !  doose  take  him  I  Pawdon  me, 
madam,  faw  seeming  woodness.  I  vewy  much  wegwet  the  occur- 
rence. I  am  twavelling  incog?iito.  You,  madam,  will  understand 
what  a  baw  it  is — especially  in  yaw  fwee  land  of  libawty,  to  have 
one's  self  pawpetwally  pointed  out?  A  howed  baw,  I  assure 
yaw ! " 

"  No  doubt  it  is.     I  can  easily  understand  that,  my  lord." 

"  Thanks,  madam  !  I  am  vewy  much  indebted  to  yaw  intelli- 
gence. But  I  must  ask  a  still  greater  fayvaw  at  your  hands.  By 
the  stoopidity  of  my  fellaw,  I  am  completely  in  yaw  power.  I 
pwesume  I  am  talking  to  a  lady.     In  fact  I  am  shaw  of  it" 

"  I  hope  so,  my  lord." 

"  Then,  madam,  the  fayvaw  I  would  ask  is,  that  yaw  keep  thiv 
little  secwet  abawt  ma  title.     Pvvay  am  J  asking  too  much?  * 

u  Not  at  all,  sir ;  not  at  all." 

u  Yaw  pwomise  me?" 


A  Nobleman  Incog,  45 

M I  promise  you,  my  lord." 

"  How  vewy  kind !  Ahundwed  thousand  thanks,  madam  !  I 
shall  be  fawever  gwateful.  P'waps  yaw  are  going  to  the  bawl 
to-night  ?  » 

u  I  intend  so,  my  lord.     I  go  with  my  daughter  and  niece." 

"  Aw — aw.  I  hope  I  shall  have  the  plesyaw  of  seeing  yaw. 
As  I  am  a  stwanger  here,  of  cawse  I  know  naw  one.  I  go  out  0/ 
meaw  quyuosity,  or  rather  I  should  say,  to  observe  yaw  national 
cawactewistics." 

"  Oh,  sir ;  you  need  be  no  stranger.  If  you  wish  to  dance,  and 
will  accept  as  partners  my  niece  and  daughter,  I  can  promise 
that  both  will  be  most  happy." 

"  Madam,  yaw  ovawwhelm  me  with  yaw  genewosity." 

The  dialogue  here  came  to  an  end.  It  was  time  to  dress  for 
the  ball ;  and,  with  a  low  bow  on  the  part  of  the  lord,  and  an 
obsequious  courtesy  on  the  side  of  the  lady,  they  separated — ex- 
pecting to  come  together  again  under  the  sheen  of  the  chandeliers. 


CHAPTER    IX 

AVANT   LE   BAL. 

Terpsichore,  at  a  fashionable  watering-place  in  the  New  World, 
affects  pretty  much  the  same  airs  as  in  the  Old. 

In  a  ball-room,  where  all  are  not  supposed  to  be  best  people,  the 
solitary  gentlemen-stranger  finds  but  little  opportunity  of  taking 
exercise—  especially  in  the  "  square-dances."  As  the  coteries 
make  the  sets,  and  monopolize  the  choicest  portions  of  the  floor, 
when  the  room  is  crowded  and  everybody  determined  to  dance, 
the  unlucky  wight,  without  acquaintances,  finds  himself  sadly  over- 
looked. The  stewards  are  usually  too  much  occupied  with 
themselves,  to  remember  those  honorary  duties  represented  by 
rosette  or  ribbon  in  the  buttonhole. 

When  it  comes  to  the  "round,"  the  stranger  stands  a  better 
chance.  It  is  only  a  matter  of  mutual  consent  between  two 
individuals ;  and  he  must  be  a  very  insignificant  personage, 
indeed,  who  cannot  then  find  some  neglected  wallflower  willing 
to  accommodate  him. 

Something  of  this  frigidity  might  have  been  felt  in  the  atmo- 
sphere of  a  Newport  ball-room ;  even  in  those  days,  ante  bellum, 
when  shoddy  was  a  thing  unheard-of,  and  "ile"  lay  "unstruck" 
in  the  dark  underground. 

Something  of  it  was  felt  by  the  young  officer  lately  returned 
from  Mexico,  and  who  was  in  fact  a  greater  stranger  to  the 
"  society  "  of  the  country  for  which  h  e  had  been  fighting,  than  to 
that  against  which  he  had  fought ! 

In  both  he  was  but  a  traveller — half-wandering  waif,  half- 
adventurer — guided  in  his  peregrinations  less  by  interest  than 
inclination. 

To  go  dancing  among  unknown  people  is  about  the  dullest 
occupation  to  which  a  traveller  can  betake  himself;  unless  the 
dance  be  one  of  the  free  kind,  where  introductions  are  easy— » 
morris,  masque,  or  fandango. 


Avant  U  BaL  47 


Maynard  knew,  or  conjectured,  this  to  be  true  of  Newport,  as 
elsewhere.  But  for  all  that,  he  had  determined  on  going  to  the 
ball. 

It  was  partly  out  of  curiosity ;  partly  to  kill  time ;  and  perhaps 
not  a  little  for  the  chance  of  again  meeting  the  two  girls  with 
whom  he  had  been  so  romantically  made  acquainted. 

He  had  seen  them  several  times  since — at  the  dinner-table, 
and  elsewhere  \  but  only  at  a  distance,  and  without  claiming  the 
privilege  of  his  outre  introduction. 

He  was  too  proud  to  throw  himself  in  their  way.  Besides,  it 
was  for  them  to  make  the  advance,  and  say  whether  the  acquaint- 
ance was  to  be  kept  up. 

They  did  not  !  Two  days  had  passed,  and  they  did  not — 
either  by  speech,  epistle,  bow,  or  courtesy  ! 

"  What   am   I   to   make   of  these  people  ? "  soliloquized  he. 

"  They  must  be  the  veriest "     He  was  going  to  say  "  snobs,' 

when  checked  by  the  thought  that  they  were  ladies. 

Besides,  such  an  epithet  to  Julia  Girdwood  !  (He  had  taken 
pains  to  make  himself  acquainted  with  her  name.)  Not  more 
inappropriate  than  if  applied  to  a  countess  or  a  queen  ! 

With  all  his  gallantry  he  could  not  help  some  spasms  of 
chagrin;  the  keener,  that,  go  where  he  would,  Julia  Girdwood 
seemed  to  go  along  with  him.  Her  splendid  face  and  figure 
appeared  ever  before  him. 

To  what  was  he  to  attribute  this  indifference — it  might  be 
called  ingratitude  on  her  part? 

Could  it  be  explained  by  the  promise  exacted  from  him  upon 
the  cliff? 

This  might  make  it  in  some  way  excusable.  He  had  since  seen 
the  girls  only  with  their  maternal  guardian — a  dame  of  severe 
aspect.  Had  the  secret  to  be  kept  from  her  ?  And  was  this  the 
reason  why  they  were  preserving  distance  ? 

It  was  probable.  He  had  some  pleasure  in  thinking  so ;  but 
more,  when  once  or  twice,  he  detected  Julia's  dark  eyes  strangely 
gazing  upon  him,  and  instantly  withdrawn,  as  his  became  turned 
upon  her. 

"  The  play's  the  thing,  wherewith  to  touch  the  conscience  o* 
the  king,"  Hamlet  declared. 


48  The  Child  Wife. 


The  ball  J  It  promised  a  clearing  up  of  this  little  mystery, 
with  perhaps  some  others.  He  would  be  sure  to  meet  them  there 
— mother,  daughter,  niece — all  three  !  It  would  be  strange  if  he 
could  not  introduce  himself;  but  if  not,  he  must  trust  to  the 
stewards. 

And  to  the  ball  he  went ;  dressed  with  as  much  taste  as  the 
laws  of  fashion  would  allow — in  those  days  liberal  enough  to 
permit  of  a  white  waistcoat. 

With  only  an  occasional  interval — transient  as  the  scintillation 
of  a  meteor — it  has  been  black  ever  since ' 

The  ball-room  was  declared  open. 

Carriages  were  setting  down  by  the  piazza  of  the  Ocean  House, 
and  silks  rustling  along  the  corridors  of  that  most  select  of 
caravanserais. 

From  the  grand  dining-saloon,  cleared  for  the  occasion  (and 
when  cleared,  making  a  dancing-room  worthy  of  Terpsichore  her- 
self), came  those  not  very  harmonious  sounds  that  tell  of  the 
tuning  of  fiddles,  and  clearing  out  the  throats  of  trombones. 

The  Girdwood  party  entered  with  considerable  eclat — the 
mother  dressed  like  a  grand-duchess,  though  without  her  diamonds. 
These  blazed  upon  the  brow  of  Julia,  and  sparkled  on  her  snow 
white  bosom — for  the  set  comprised  a  necklace  with  pendants. 

She  was  otherwise  splendidly  attired ;  and,  in  truth,  looked 
superb.  The  cousin  of  more  modest  grace  and  means,  though 
pretty,  seemed  as  nothing  beside  her. 

Mrs.  Girdwood  had  made  a  mistake — in  coming  in  too  early. 
It  is  true  there  were  fashionable  people  already  in  the  room. 
But  these  were  the  "  organizers "  of  the  entertainment ;  who, 
backed  by  a  sort  of  semi-official  authority,  had  gathered  in  little 
groups  over  the  floor,  scanning  across  fans,  or  through  eye-glasses, 
the  dancers  as  they  came  in. 

Through  these  the  Girdwoods  had  to  run  the  gauntlet— as  they 
made  their  way  to  the  upper  end  of  the  room. 

They  did  so  with  success,  though  not  without  being  aware  of 
some  supercilious  glances,  accompanied  by  whispered  words  that, 
if  heard,  might  have  somewhat  disconcerted  them. 

It  was  the  second  Newport  ball — "  hops  "  count  for  nothing— 
at  which  Mrs.  Girdwood  and  her  girls  had  shown  themselves. 


Avant  le  Bal.  49 


The  first  had  not  given  great  satisfaction — more  especially  to 
Julia. 

But  there  was  a  better  prospect  now.  Mrs.  Girdwood  had 
entered,  with  a  confidence  based  on  the  conversation  she  had  just 
held  with  the  distinguished  incognito,  Mr.  Swinton. 

She  had  seen  this  gentleman  during  the  day :  for,  as  already 
known,  he  had  not  shut  himself  up  in  his  room.  She  was 
sufficiently  discerning  to  see  that  he  was  possessed  of  a  fine  face 
and  figure.  His  hair,  too — of  the  most  aristocratic  kind  1  How 
could  it  be  otherwise  ?  She  alone  knew  the  reason — she  and  her 
daughter  •  to  whom  she  had,  of  course,  communicated  the  secret 
of  her  discovery.  A  bit  of  broken  promise  that  need  not  be 
severely  criticised. 

She  knew  of  my  lord's  late  arrival — from  Canada  he  had  told 
her — though  he  had  paid  a  flying  visit  to  New  York. 

She  hoped  no  one  in-  the  ball-room  would  recognise  him — at 
least  not  till  after  she  had  paraded  him  with  her  own  party,  and 
could  assume  the  seeming  of  his  introducer. 

She  had  still  stronger  reason  for  this.  Storekeeper's  widow,  as 
she  was,  she  possessed  the  true  tact  of  the  match-making  mother. 
It  belongs  to  no  clime  exclusively;  no  country.  It  can  be  as 
well  acquired  in  New  York  as  in  London,  Vienna,  or  Paris.  She 
was  a  believer  in  first  impressions — with  the  "  compromises  "  that 
often  spring  from  them;  and  in  this  theory — with  the  view  of 
putting  it  into  practice — she  had  instructed  her  dear  Julia  while 
dressing  her  for  the  ball. 

The  daughter  had  promised  compliance.  Who  wouldn't,  with 
the  prospect  of  earning  twenty  thousand  dollars'  worth  of 
diamonds  ? 


CHAPTER   X. 

A   PREVIOUS    ENGAGEMENT. 

In  all  the  gradations  of  the  thermal  line,  is  there  my  atmosphere 
more  unbearable  than  that  of  a  ball-room  before  the  dancing 
commences  ? 

:f  discorr. 
11  a  relief  when  the  baton  of  the  conductor  is 

es,  and  those  strains,  proverbially  soothiiig  to  the 
savage,  resound  through  the  glittering  saloon  I 

a  relief  to  Mrs.  Girdwood  and  her  girls.     They  had 
begun  to  fancy  themselves  too  much  observed.  Julia  had, 

h  ".:'  s  >;  :  .v.-  :  h -:  —  .:  ;•:"  '  .:  _  :'-.e  -  :'  ;e ::  of  a  cynical  critiiisn:. 
which  she  did  not  think  of  attributing  to  her  diamonds. 

She  was  burning  with  an  ill-repressed  spleen,  by  no  means 
diminished  as  the  sets  commenced  forming,  and  no  one  came 
forward  to  claim  either  herself  or  her  cousin. 

At  that  moment  appeared  a  man  whose  presence  changed  the 
current  of  her  thoughts.     It  was  Maynard. 

In  spite  of  her  mother's  precautionary  counsr  Girdwood 

could  not  look  upon  this  gentleman  with  indifference.     T 

t  had  passed  between  them,  a  glanc  e  i  her 

that  there  was  no  handsomer  man  in  the  room,  or  likely  to  come 
into  it 

He  was  approaching  from  the  entrance,  apparently  making  hii 
■ay  toward  the  Girdwood  group, 

Julia  wondered  whether  he  wa=  going  to  job  them.  She  hoped 
that  he  would. 

I  suppose  I  may  dance  with  him,  mother— that  is,  if  he  asks 

Not  yet,  my  dear,  not  yet.     Wait  a  little  longer.     His  lord- 

nton — may  come  in  at  any  moment     You  must 

the  first  with  him.     I   won:  "  pursued 

-npatient  parent,  for  the  tenth  time  raisin?  her  eye-glass  and 


A   y  rev  tons  C 


taking   i  s  n< 

for  men  of  .  ]u 

-jTived.     The  intr  .At 

u  succeed  e  hum  of  half- 

.-..  and  the  nii:  /  tha*  movement  k 

g  of  plac-r 
across  the  slippery  floor,  formal. ;  g  in  front  of  expander* 

a'd  mi:.  lay  I  have  the 

;     Then  a  momer.:   -  ra  -lution  on  the  part 

:  lady,  perhaps  the  cor.  :'  cardboard,  an  in- 

ion  of  the  head  so  )C  scarce  observable,  a  i 

to  the  feet,  with  the  greatest  apparent  reluctance,  and  lastly  the 
:         :ance  of  the  offered  arm,  as  if  conferring  the  supremest  of 

• 
-  of  the  ;  r  Mrs.    Gird  wood's  care  had 

been  yet  calle  :  i  in  this  pantomime.     Certainly 

no  nner- 
-'O'jm,  ani  tht  .ores  of  gentlemen  who 

re  been  de  vith  them.     Their  star 

'^uld  be  or.jy  an  a', 
-ekeeper's  wid  n  to  find  it  disagreeable.     She 

t  the  desc 
^s  no  lord  ir.  ie  ex-officer  would  not  be  mud 

i  to. 
"Does  he  intend  coming  at  all?  ected,  thinking  of 

M  Does  he  ::  I  ?  w  was  the  reflection  oi  Julia, 

11  appro^ 
He  v..  took 

ion  on  the  floor.     B  nat  he  was  looking  to- 

^od. 
Ht  .  ^n,  his  glance 

apj;t  a. 

It  Dj  .t,  for  his  de- 

meanour became  :  -  ^p  to  the  two 

y#un§  ladies  he  sa.  ow. 


5a  The  Child  Wife. 


By  both  the  salutation  was  returned,  perhaps  more  cordially 
than  he  had  been  expecting. 

Both  appeared  to  be  still  unengaged.  To  which  ought  he  to 
offer  himself?  He  knew  which  he  would  have  chosen,  but  ther* 
was  a  question  of  etiquette. 

As  it  turned  out,  there  was  no  question  of  choice. 

"Julia,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Girdwood,  presenting  a  very 
stylishly-dressed  individual,  who  had  just  been  given  in  charge  to 
her  by  one  of  the  stewards.  "  I  hope  you  have  not  engaged  your- 
self for  the  quadrille  ?  I've  promised  you  to  this  gentleman.  Mr. 
Smithson — my  daughter." 

Julia  glanced  at  Smithson,  and  then  looked  as  if  she  wished 
him  far  enough. 

But  she  had  not  engaged  herself,  and  was  therefore  compelled 
to  accept. 

Lest  a  second  Mr.  Smithson  should  be  trotted  up,  Maynard 
hastened  to  secure  Cornelia,  and  led  her  off  to  form  "  opposite 
couple." 

Seemingly  satisfied  with  the  disposal  thus  made,  Mrs.  Girdwood 
retired  to  a  seat. 

Her  contentment  was  of  short  continuance.  She  had  scarce 
touched  the  cushion,  when  she  saw  coming  towards  her  a  gentle- 
man of  distinguished  appearance,  in  straw  kids.  It  was  his  lord- 
ship incog. 

She  started  back  to  her  feet,  and  glanced  across  the  room  to- 
ward the  square  that  contained  her  girls.  She  looked  intewoga- 
tively,  then  despairingly.  It  was  too  late.  The  quadrille  had 
commenced.  Mr.  Smithson  was  doing  "  right  and  left  "  with  her 
daughter.     Confound  Mr.  Smithson  ! 

"  Aw,  madam  !  How'd  do,  again  ?  Ball  begun,  I  pawceive ; 
and  I'm  cut  out  of  the  kadwille." 

"  It  is  true,  Mr.  Swinton ;  you've  come  in  a  little  late,  sir." 

"What  a  baw  !    I pwesume  yaw  young  ladies  are  disposed  of?1* 

*u  Yes  ;  they  are  dancing  over  yonder." 

Mrs.  Girdwood  pointed  them  out.  Adjusting  his  eye-glass,  Mr, 
Swinton  looked  across  the  room.  His  eye  wandered  in  search 
of  Mrs.  Girdwood's  daughter.  He  did  not  think  of  the  niece. 
And  his  inquiry  was  directed  more  to  Julia's  partner  than  herself. 


A  Previous  Engagement.  53 

A  single  look  seemed  to  satisfy  him.  Mr.  Smithson  was  not 
the  man  to  make  him  uneasy. 

"  I  hope,  madam,"  he  said,  turning  to  the  mother,  "  I  hope 
Miss  Girdwood  has  not  filled  up  her  cawd  for  the  evening  ?  " 

"  Oh,  certainly  not,  sir  !  " 

"  Pewaps  for  the  next — I  pawceive  by  th»  pawgwam  a  vali — 
pwaps  I  might  have  the  honour  of  valzing  with  her  ?  May  I  be- 
speak yaw  influence  in  my  behalf;  that  is,  if  there  be  no  pwevious 
engagement  ?  " 

"  I  know  there  is  none.  I  can  promise  you  that,  sir ;  my 
daughter  will  no  doubt  be  most  happy  to  waltz  with  you." 

"  Thanks,  madam  1     A  thousand  thanks  !  " 

And,  this  point  settled,  the  amiable  nobleman  continued  to 
talk  to  the  relict  of  the  retail  storekeeper  with  as  much  amiability 
as  if  she  had  been  his  equal  in  rank. 

Mrs.  Girdwood  was  delighted  with  him.  How  much  superior 
this  sprig  of  true  British  nobility  to  the  upstart  bloods  of  New 
York  or  Boston  !  Neither  the  Old  Dominion,  nor  South  Caro- 
lina itself,  could  produce  such  a  charming  creature  !  What  a  rare 
stroke  of  good  fortune  to  have  chanced  so  timeously  across  him  ! 
Blessings  upon  the  head  of  that  "  Stoopid  fellaw,  Fwank  1 "  as 
his  lordship  had  styled  the  little  valet. 

Frank  was  entitled  to  a  present,  which  some  day  Mrs.  Gird- 
wood had  mentally  determined  upon  giving  him. 

Julia  engaged  for  the  next  !  Certainly  not !  Nor  the  next, 
nor  the  next.  She  should  dance  with  him  all  night  long  if  he 
desired  it.  And  if  it  were  to  be  so,  how  she  would  like  to  be  re- 
leased from  that  promise,  and  let  all  Newport  know  that  Mr. 
Swinton  was — a  lord  ! 

So  ran  Mrs.  Girdwood's  thoughts — kept,  of  course,  to  herself. 

In  a  quadrille,  the  opportunities  of  the  vis-a-vis  are  only  in- 
ferior to  those  of  the  partner.  Maynard  had  improved  his  by 
engaging  Julia  Girdwood  for  the  waltz  1  With  this  understanding 
they  had  separated  upon  the  floor. 

In  less  than  ten  minutes  after  a  group  might  have  been  ob- 
served on  one  side  of  the  ball-room,  consisting  of  two  ladies  and 
two  gentlemen,  who  seemed  to  have  some  crooked  question  be* 
tween  them — a  scene. 


54  The  Child  Wife. 


The  ladies  were  Mrs.  Girdwood  and  her  daughter  ;  the  gentle- 
men,  Messrs.  Maynard  and  Swinton. 

All  four  had  just  come  together  ;  the  two  last  without  exchang- 
ing speech  or  bow,  but  exhibiting  in  the  exchanged  glances  suffi- 
cient sign  of  mutual  recognition — sign,  too,  of  some  old  antipathy. 

In  the  confusion  of  the  moment,  Mrs.  Girdwood  did  not  ob- 
serve this.     Her  daughter  did. 

What  was  the  trouble  among  them  ? 

The  conversation  will  explain  it. 

"  Julia,  my  dear  " — it  was  Mrs.  Girdwood  who  spoke — "  I've 
engaged  you  for  the  first  waltz — to  Mr.  Swinton  here.  Mr.  Swin- 
ton— my  daughter." 

The  introduction  had  just  ended  as  Maynard,  coming  forward 
to  claim  his  promised  partner,  formed  the  fourth  corner  in  the 
quartette.     The  music  was  commencing. 

The  hostile  "  stare "  exchanged  between  the  two  gentlemen 
lasted  only  a  second,  when  the  young  officer,  recomposing  his 
countenance;  turned  toward  Miss  Girdwood,  at  the  same  time 
offering  his  arm. 

Yielding  obedience  to  an  authoritative  look  from  her  mother, 
the  lady  appeared  to  hesitate  about  accepting  it 

"  You  will  excuse  my  daughter,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Girdwood,  "  she 
is  already  engaged." 

"  Indeed  ! "  exclaimed  the  ex-captain,  looking  grandly  as- 
tonished at  the  mother,  and  turning  to  the  daughter  for  an  explan- 
ation. 

"  I  think  not,  mamma  ?  n  answered  Julia,  with  an  air  of  inde- 
cision. 

"  But  you  have,  my  child  !  You  know  I  had  promised  you  to 
Mr.  Swinton  here,  before  the  ball  began.  It  is  very  awkward  1 
I  hope,  sir,  you  will  excuse  her  ?  " 

The  last  speech  was  addressed  to  Maynard. 

He  glanced  once  more  toward  Julia.  She  seemed  still  un- 
decided.    But  her  look  might  be  translated,  "  Excuse  me." 

So  interpreting  it,  he  said : 

"  If  it  be  Miss  Girdwood's  wish,  I  release  her." 

Again  he  fixed  his  eyes  upon  her  face,  watching  for  the  move- 
ment of  her  lips. 


A  Previous  Engagement  55 

There  was  none  ! 

Silence  appeared  to  give  consent.  Forcibly  the  old  adage 
came  before  Maynard's  mind — so  forcibly,  that  with  a  bow,  which 
comprehended  the  trio,  he  turned  upon  his  heel,  and  disappeared 
among  the  dancers. 

In  six  seconds  after,  Julia  Girdwood  was  whirling  around  the 
room,  her  flushed  cheek  resting  upon  the  shoulder  of  a  man 
known  to  nobody,  but  whose  dancing  everybody  admired. 

"Who  is  the  distinguished  stranger?"  was  the  inquiry  on  every 
lip.  It  was  even  put — lispingly  of  course — by  the  J.'s  and  the 
L.'s  and  the  B.'s. 

Mrs.  Girdwood  would  have  given  a  thousand  dollars  to  have. 
satisfied  their  curiosity — to  have  spited  them  with  the  knowledge 
that  her  daughter  was  dancing  with  a  lord  I 


CHAPTER    XI. 

BALL-ROOM    EMOTIONS. 

In  addition  to  the  "  bar  "  at  which  you  settle  your  hotel  account, 
the  Ocean  House  has  another,  exclusively  devoted  to  drinking. 

It  is  a  snug,  shady  affair,  partially  subterranean,  and  reached 
by  a  stairway,  trodden  only  by  the  worshippers  of  Bacchus. 

Beyond  this  limited  circle  its  iocality  is  scarcely  known. 

In  this  underground  region  the  talk  of  gentlemen,  who  have 
waxed  warm  over  their  cups,  may  be  carried  on  ever  so  rudely, 
without  danger  of  its  reaching  the  delicate  ears  of  those  fair  sylphs 
skimming  through  the  corridors  above. 

This  is  as  it  should  be ;  befitting  a  genteel  establishment,  such 
as  the  Ocean  House  undoubtedly  is ;  adapted  also  to  the  ascetic 
atmosphere  of  New  England. 

The  Puritan  prefers  taking  his  drink  u  on  the  quiet." 

On  ball  nights,  the  bar-room  in  question  is  more  especially 
patronized,  not  only  by  the  guests  of  the  House,  but  outsider! 
from  other  hotels,  and  "  the  cottages." 

Terpsichore  is  a  thirsty  creature — one  of  the  best  customers  of 
Bacchus ;  and,  after  dancing,  usually  sends  a  crowd  of  worship- 
pers to  t  ^shrine  of  the  jolly  god. 

At  the  Ocean  House  balls,  drink  can  be  had  upstairs,  cham- 
pagne and  other  light  wines,  wJtn  jellies  and  ices;  but  only 
underground  are  you  permitted  to  do  your  imDiuTub  to  tne 
accompaniment  of  a  cigar. 

For  this  reason  many  of  the  gentlemen  dancers,  at  intervals, 
descended  the  stairway  that  led  to  the  drin king-saloon. 

Among  others  was  Maynard,  smarting  under  his  discomfiture 

"A  brandy  smash  1"  he  demanded,  pausing  in  front  of  th% 

Osx. 

"  Ot  all  men,  Dick  Switton  !  *  soliloquized  he  while  waiting 
for  the  mixture.     "  It's  true  then,  that  he's  been  turned  out  of 

* 


Ball-Room  Emotums.  57 

his  regiment.  No  more  than  he  deserved,  and  I  expected.  Con- 
found the  scamp!  I  wonder  what's  brought  him  out  here? 
Some  card-sharping  expedition,  I  suppose — a  razzia  on  the 
pigeon-roosts  of  America !  Apparently  under  the  patronage  of 
Gird  wood  mere,  and  evidently  in  pursuit  of  Girdwoody£//<?.  How 
has  he  got  introduced  to  them  ?  I'd  bet  high  they  don't  know 
much  about  him." 

"  Brandy  smash,  mister ! n 

"  Well ! "  he  continued,  as  if  tranquillized  by  a  pull  at  the 
iced  mixture  and  the  narcotic  smell  of  the  mint.  "  It's  no 
business  of  mine ;  and  after  what's  passed,  I  don't  intend  making 
it  They  can  have  him  at  their  own  price.  Caveat  e??iptor.  For 
this  little  contretemps  I  needn't  blame  him,  though  I'd  give  twenty 
dollars  to  have  an  excuse  for  tweaking  his  nose  ! " 

Captain  Maynard  was  anything  but  a  quarrelsome  man.  He 
only  thought  in  this  strain,  smarting  under  his  humiliation. 

"  It  must  have  been  the  doing  of  the  mother,  who  for  a  son-in- 
law  prefers  Mr.  Swinton  to  me.  Ha !  ha  1  ha  I  If  she  only 
knew  him  as  I  do  !  " 

Another  gulp  out  of  the  glass. 

"  But  the  girl  was  a  consenting  party.  Clearly  so ;  else  why 
should  she  have  hung  fire  about  giving  me  an  answer  ?  Cut  out 
by  Dick  Swinton  !     The  devil !  " 

A  third  pull  at  the  brandy  smash. 

"  Hang  it  1  It  won't  do  to  declare  myself  defeated.  They'd 
think  so,  if  I  didn't  go  back  to  the  ball-room  !  And  what  am  I 
to  do  there  ?  I  don't  know  a  single  feminine  in  the  room ;  and 
to  wander  about  like  some  forlorn  and  forsaken  spirit  wouU 
but  give  them  a  chance  for  sneering  at  me.  The  ungrateful 
wretches  !  Perhaps  I  shouldn't  be  so  severe  on  the  little  blonde. 
I  might  dance  with  her  ?  But,  no !  I  shall  not  go  near  them. 
1  must  trust  to  the  stewards  to  provide  me  wit&  something  in  the 
shape  of  a  partner." 

He  once  more  raised  the  glass  to  his  lips,  this  time  to  be 
emptied. 

Then,  ascending  the  stairs,  he  sauntered  back  to  the  ball- 
room. 

He  was  lucky  in  his  intercession  with  the  gentlemen  in  rosettes. 


58  The  Child  Wife, 


He  chanced  upon  one  to  whom  his  name  was  not  unknown  ;  and 
through  the  intercession  of  this  gentleman  found  partners  in 
plenty. 

He  had  one  for  every  dance — waltz,  quadrille,  polka,  and 
schottishe — some  of  the  "  sweetest  creatures  "  on  the  floor. 

In  such  companionship  he  should  have  forgotten  Julia  Gird- 
wood. 

And  yet  he  did  not. 

Strange  she  should  continue  to  attract  him  I  There  were 
others  fair  as  she — perhaps  fairer;  but  throughout  the  kaleid> 
scopic  changes  of  that  glittering  throng,  his  eyes  were  continually 
searching  for  the  woman  who  had  given  him  only  chagrin.  He 
saw  her  dancing  with  a  man  he  had  good  reason  to  despise — all 
night  long  dancing  with  him,  observed  by  everybody,  and  by 
many  admired. 

In  secret  unpleasantness  Maynard  watched  this  splendid 
woman ;  but  it  was  the  acme"  of  bitterness  when  he  saw  her  give 
ear  to  the  whisperings  of  Richard  Swinton,  and  lean  her  cheek 
upon  his  shoulder  as  they  whirled  around  the  roora9  keeping 
time  to  the  voluptuous  strains  of  the  Cellarius. 

Again  occurred  to  him  the  same  thought :  "  I'd  give  twenty 
dollars  to  have  an  excuse  for  tweaking  his  nose !" 

He  did  not  know  that,  at  less  cost,  and  without  seeking  it,  he 
was  near  to  the  opportunity. 

Perhaps  he  would  have  sought  it,  but  for  a  circumstance  that 
turned  up  just  in  time  to  tranquillize  him. 

He  was  standing  by  the  entrance,  close  to  a  set  screen.  The 
Girdvvoods  were  retiring  from  the  room,  Julia  leaning  on  the  arm 
of  Swinton.  As  she  approached  the  spot  he  saw  that  her  eyes 
were  upon  him.  He  endeavoured  to  read  their  expression. 
Was  it  scornful  ?     Or  tender  ? 

He  could  not  tell.  Julia  Girdwood  was  a  girl  who  had  rare 
rommand  of  her  countenance. 

Suddenly,  as  if  impressed  by  some  bold  thought,  or  perhaps  a 
pang  of  repentance,  she  let  go  the  arm  of  her  partner,  dropping 
behind,  and  leaving  him  to  proceed  with  the  others.  Then 
swerving  a  little,  so  as  to  pass  close  to  where  Maynard  stood,  she 
said,  in  a  hurried  half-whisper  ; 


Ball-Room  Emotions,  59 

**  Very  unkind  of  you  to  desert  us  ! n 

"  Indeed  ! " 

"  You  should  have  come  back  for  an  explanation,"  added  she, 
reproachfully.     "  I  could  not  help  it.* 

Before  he  could  make  reply  she  was  gone ;  but  the  accent  of 
teproach  left  tingling  in  his  ear  was  anything  but  disagreeable. 

"  A  strange  girl  this  !  "  muttered  he,  in  astonished  soliloquy. 
*  Most  certainly  an  original !  After  all,  perhaps,  not  so  ungrate 
fuL     It  may  have  been  due  to  the  mother." 


CHAPTER  XIL 

*APRES   LE    BAL." 

The  ball  was  almost  over;  the  fagged  and  flagging  dancers 
rapidly  retiring.  The  belles  were  already  gone,  and  among  them 
Julia  Girdwood.  Only  the  wallflowers,  yet  comparatively  fresh, 
were  stirring  upon  the  floor.  To  them  it  was  the  time  of  true 
enjoyment ;  for  it  is  they  who  "  dance  all  night  till  broad  day- 
light." 

Maynard  had  no  motive  for  remaining  after  Miss  Girdwood 
was  gone.  It  was,  in  truth,  she  who  had  retained  him.  But 
with  a  spirit  now  stirred  by  conflicting  emotions,  there  would  be 
little  chance  of  sleep ;  and  he  resolved,  before  retiring  to  his 
couch,  to  make  one  more  sacrifice  at  the  shrine  of  Bacchus. 

With  this  intent,  be  again  descended  the  stairway  leading  to 
the  cellar  saloon. 

On  reaching  the  basement,  he  saw  that  he  had  been  preceded 
by  ascore  of  gentlemen,  who,  like  himself,  had  come  down  from 
the  ball-room. 

They  were  standing  in  knots — drinking,  smoking,  conversing. 

Scarce  giving  any  of  them  a  glance,  he  stepped  up  to  the  bar, 
and  pronounced  the  name  of  his  drink — this  time  plain  brandy 
and  water. 

While  waiting  to  be  served  a  voice  arrested  his  attention.  It 
came  from  one  of  three  individuals,  who,  like  himself,  had  taken 
stand  before  the  counter,  on  which  were  their  glasses. 

The  speaker's  back  was  toward  him,  though  sufficient  of  his 
whisker  could  be  seen  for  Maynard  to  identify  Dick  Swinton. 

His  companions  were  also  recognizable  as  the  excursionists  of 
the  row-boat,  whose  dog  he  had  peppered  with  duck-shot. 

To  Mr.  Swinton  they  were  evidently  recent  acquaintances, 
picked  up  perhaps  during  the  course  of  the  evening;  and  they 
appeared  to  have  .taken  as  kindly  to  him  as  if  they,  too,  had 
learnt,  or  suspected  him  to  be  a  lord  1 


HAf>res  U  Baln  61 


He  was  holding  forth  to  them  in  that  grand  style  of  intonation, 
supposed  to  be  peculiar  to  the  English  nobleman ;  though  in 
reality  but  the  conceit  of  the  stage  caricaturist  and  Bohemian 
scribbler,  who  only  know  "my  lord"  through  the  medium  of 
their  imaginations. 

Maynard  thought  it  a  little  strange.  But  it  was  many  years 
since  he  had  last  seen  the  man  now  near  him  ;  and  as  time  pro- 
duces some  queer  changes,  Mr.  Swinton's  style  of  talking  need 
not  be  an  exception. 

From  the  manner  in  which  he  and  his  two  listeners  were 
fraternising,  it  was  evident  they  had  been  some  time  before  the 
bar.  At  all  events  they  were  sufficiently  obfuscated  not  to  notice 
new-comers,  and  thus  he  had  escaped  their  attention. 

He  would  have  left  them  equally  unnoticed,  but  for  some 
words  striking  on  his  ear  that  evidently  bore  reference  to  himself. 

"  By-the-way,  sir,"  said  one  of  the  strangers,  addressing  Sain- 
ton, "  if  it's  not  making  too  free,  may  I  ask  you  for  an  explan- 
ation of  that  little  affair  that  happened  in  the  ball-room  ?  " 

"Aw — aw;  of  what  affair  do  yaw  speak,  Mr.  Lucas?" 

"  Something  queer — just  before  the  first  waltz.  There  was  a 
dark-haired  girl  with  a  diamond  head-dress — the  same  you  danced 
a  good  deal  with — Miss  Gird  wood  I  believe  her  name  is — and  a 
fellow  with  moustache  and  imperial.  The  old  lady,  too,  seemed 
to  have  a  hand  in  it.  My  friend  and  I  chanced  to  be  standing 
close  by,  and  saw  there  was  some  sort  of  a  scene  among  you. 
Wasn't  it  so  ?  " 

"Scene— naw — naw.  Only  the  fellaw  wanted  to  have  a  spin 
with  the  divine  queetyaw,  aud  the  lady  preferred  dancing  with 
yaw  humble  servant     That  was  all,  gentlemen,  I  ashaw  yaw." 

"  We  thought  there  had  been  a  difficulty  between  him  and  you. 
It  looked  devilish  like  it." 

"  Not  with  me.  I  believe  there  was  a  misunderstanding  be- 
tween him  and  the  young  lady.  The  twuth  is,  she  pweaded  a 
pwevious  engagement,  which  she  didn't  seem  to  have  upon  her 
cawd.  For  my  part  I  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  fellaw — abso- 
utely  nothing — did  not  even  speak  to  him." 

"You  looked  at  him,  though,  and  he  at  you.  I  thought  you 
were  going  to  have  it  out  between  you,  there  and  then." 


62  The  Child  Wife. 


«  Aw — aw ;  he  understands  me  bettaw — that  same  individual" 

"  You  knew  hira  before,  then  ?  " 

"  Slightly,  vewy  slightly— a  long  time  agaw." 

"In  your  own  country,  perhaps?  He  appears  to  be  an 
Englishman." 

"  Naw— not  a  bit  of  it.     He's  a  demmed  Iwishman." 

Maynard's  ears  were  becoming  rapidly  hot. 

"What  was  he  on  your  side?"  inquired  the  junior  of  Swintoni 
new  acquaintances,  who  appeared  quite  as  curious  as  the  older  one. 

"What  was  he  !     Aw — aw,  faw  that  matter  nothing — nothing," 

"  No  calling,  or  professson  ?  " 

"  Wah,  yas ;  when  I  knew  the  fellaw  he  was  an  ensign  in  an 
infantry  wegiment.  Not  one  of  the  cwack  corps,  yaw  knaw. 
We  should  not  have  weceived  him  in  ours." 

Maynard's  fingers  began  to  twitch. 

"  Of  course  not,"  continued  the  "  swell."  "  I  have  the  honaw, 
gentlemen,  to  bewong  to  the  Gawds — Her  Majesty's  Dwagoon 
Gawds." 

"  He  has  been  in  our  service — in  one  of  the  regiments  raised 
for  the  Mexican  war.     Do  you  know  why  he  left  yours  ?  " 

"Well,  gentlemen,  it's  not  for  me  to  speak  too  fweely  of  a 
fellaw' s  antecedents.  I  am  usually  cautious  about  such  matters — 
vewy  cautious,  indeed." 

"  Oh,  certainly ;  right  enough,"  rejoined  the  rebuked  inquirer  5 
"  I  only  asked  because  it  seems  a  little  odd  that  an  officer  of 
your  army  should  have  left  it  to  take  service  in  ours." 

"If  I  knew  anything  to  the  fellaw's  qwedit,"  continued  the 
Guardsman,  "  I  should  be  most  happy  to  communicate  it  Un- 
fawtunately,  I  don't     Quite  the  contwawy  !  " 

Maynard's  muscles — especially  those  of  his  dexter  arm — were 
becoming  fearfully  contracted.  It  wanted  but  little  to  draw  him 
into  the  conversation.  One  more  such  remark  would  be  suffi- 
cient ;  and  unfortunately  for  himself,  Mr.  Swinton  made  it 

"  The  twuth  is,  gentlemen,"  said  he,  the  drink  perhaps  having 
deprived  him  of  his  customary  caution — "  the  twuth  is,  that  Mr. 
Ensign  Maynard — or  Captain  Maynard,  as  I  believe  he  now 
styles  himself — was  kicked  out  of  the  Bwitish  service.  Such 
the  report,  though  I  won't  be  wesnonsible  for  its  twuth.* 


Aprte  U  Bair  63 


"/fs  a  lie/*  cried  Maynard,  suddenly  pulling  off  his  kid  glove, 
and  drawing  it  sharply  across  his  traducer's  cheek.  "  A  lie, 
Dick  Swinton  !  And  if  not  responsible  for  originating  it,  as  you 
say,  you  shall  be  for  giving  it  circulation.  There  never  was  such 
a  report,  and  you  know  it,  scoundrel ! " 

Swinton's  cheek  turned  white  as  the  glove  that  had  smitten  it ; 
but  it  was  the  pallor  of  fear  rather  than  anger. 

"  Aw — indeed  I  you  there,  Mr.  Maynard  !  Well — well ;  I'm 
sure — you  say  it's  not  twue.  And  you've  called  me  a  scoundwell ! 
And  yaw  stwuck  me  with  yaw  glove  !  " 

"  I  shall  repeat  the  word  and  the  blow.  I  shall  spit  in  youi 
face,  if  you  don't  retract ! n 

"  Wetwact ! » 

"Bah!  there's  been  enough  pass  between  us.  I  leave  you 
time  to  reflect.  My  room  is  209,  on  the  fourth  storey.  I  hope 
you'll  find  a  friend  who  won't  be  above  climbing  to  it.  My  card, 
sir ! " 

Swinton  took  the  card,  and  with  fingers  that  showed  trembling 
gave  his  own  in  exchange.  While  with  a  scornful  glance,  that 
comprehended  both  him  and  his  acolytes,  the  other  faced  back 
to  the  bar,  coolly  completed  his  potation,  and,  without  saying 
another  word,  reascended  the  stairway. 

"  You'll  meet  him,  won't  you  ?  "  asked  the  older  of  Swinton's 
drinking  companions. 

It  was  not  a  very  correct  interrogatory  ;  but,  perhaps,  judging 
by  what  had  passed,  the  man  who  put  it  may  have  deemed  deli- 
cacy superfluous. 

"  Of  cawse — of  cawse,"  replied  he  of  Her  Majesty's  Horse 
Guards,  without  taking  note  of  the  rudeness.  "  Demmed  awk- 
ward, too  !  "  he  continued,  reflectingly.  "  I  am  here  a  stwanger 
—no  fwend — " 

"  Oh,  for  that  matter,"  interrupted  Lucas,  the  owner  of  the 
Newfoundland  dog,  "  there  need  be  no  difficulty.  I  shall  be  most 
happy  to  act  as  your  second." 

The  man  who  thus  readily  volunteered  his  services  was  as  arrant 
a  poltroon  as  could  have  been  found  about  the  fashionable 
hostelry  in  which  the  conversation  was  taking  place — not  except- 
ing  Swinton    himself.     He,   too,    had   good   cause   for  playing 


64  The  Child  Wife. 


principal  in  a  duel  with  Captain  Maynard.  But  it  was  safer  to 
be  second  ;  and  no  man  knew  this  better  than  Louis  Lucas. 

It  would  not  be  the  first  time  for  him  to  act  in  this  capacity. 
Twice  before  had  he  done  so,  obtaining  by  it  a  sort  of  borrowed 
eclat  that  was  mistaken  for  bravery.  For  all  this  he  was  in  reality 
a  coward  ;  and  though  smarting  under  the  remembrance  of  his 
encounter  with  Maynard,  he  had  allowed  the  thing  to  linger  with- 
out taking  further  steps.  The  quarrel  with  Swinton  was  therefore 
in  good  time,  and  to  his  hand. 

"  Either  I,  or  my  friend  here,"  he  added. 

"With  pleasure,"  assented  the  other. 

"  Thanks,  gentlemen  ;  thanks,  both  !  Exceedingly  kind  of  you ! 
But,"  continued  Swinton  in  a  hesitating  manner,  "  I  should  be 
sowy  to  bwing  either  of  you  into  my  scwape.  There  are  some 
of  my  old  comwades  in  Canada,  sarving  with  their  wegiments.  I 
shall  telegwaph  to  them.  And  this  fellaw  must  wait.  Now,  dem 
it  !  let's  dwop  the  subject,  and  take  anothaw  dwink." 

All  this  was  said  with  an  air  of  assumed  coolness,  of  which  not 
even  the  drinks  already  taken  could  cover  the  pretence.  It  was, 
in  truth,  but  a  subterfuge  to  gain  time,  and  reflect  upon  some  plan 
to  escape  without  calling  Maynard  out. 

There  might  be  a  chance,  if  left  to  himself;  but  once  in  the 
hands  of  another,  there  would  be  no  alternative  but  to  stand  up. 

These  were  the  thoughts  rapidly  coursing  through  Mr.  Swinton's 
•mind,  while  the  fresh  drinks  were  being  prepared. 

As  the  glass  again  touched  his  lips,  they  were  white  and  dry; 
and  the  after-conversation  between  him  and  his  picked-up 
acquaintances  was  continued  on  his  part  with  an  air  of  abstraction 
that  told  of  a  terrible  ^uneasiness. 

It  was  only  when  oblivious  with  more  drink  that  he  assumed 
his  swagger;  but  an  hour  afterward,  as  he  staggered  upstairs, 
even  the  alcoholic  "  bumming"  in  his  brain  did  not  hinder  him 
from  having  a  clear  recollection  of  the  encounter  with  the 
"  demmed  Iwishman  !  " 

Once  inside  his  own  apartment,  the  air  of  the  nobleman  was 
suddenly  abandoned.  So,  too,'  the  supposed  resemblance  in 
speech.  His  talk  was  now  that  of  a  commoner — intoxicated.  It 
was  addressed  to  his  valet,  still  sitting  up  to  receive  him. 


"Afris  le  Ball*  6$ 


A  small  ante-chamber  on  one  side  was  supposed  to  be  the 
sleeping-place  of  this  confidential  servant  Judging  by  the 
dialogue  that  ensued,  he  might  be  well  called  confidential  A 
stranger  to  the  situation  would  have  been  surprised  at  listening 
to  it. 

"  A  pretty  night  youVe  made  of  it ! "  said  the  valet,  speaking 
more  in  the  tone  of  a  master. 

"  Fact— fac— hic'p  I  you  speak  th'  truth,  Frank  !  No — not 
pretty  night.     The  ver'  reverse — a  d — d d  ugly  night* 

"  What  do  you  mean,  you  sot  ?  " 

"  Mean — mee-an  !  I  mean  the  g — gig — game's  up.  'Tis,  by 
Jingo !  Splend'd  chance.  Never  have  such  'nother.  Million 
dollars  !     All  spoiled— th'  infernal  fella  1 " 

"What  fellow?" 

"  Whodyespose  I've  seen — met  him  in  the  ball — ball — bar- 
room— down  below.  Let's  have  another  drink !  Drinks  all 
round — who's  g— gig — goin  drink  ?  " 

"  Try  and  talk  a  little  straighter  !     What's  this  about  ?  " 

"Whas't  'bout?  Whatshdbe  about?  Him— hic'p !  'bout 
him." 

"Him!  who?" 

"Who — who — who — why,  Maynard.  Of  course  you  know 
Maynard?  B'long  to  the  Thirty— Thirty— Don't  rec'Ject  the 
number  of  regiment.  No  matter  for  that.  He's  here— the  c — 
c — onfounded  cur." 

"  Maynard  here  I "  exclaimed  the  valet,  in  a  tone  strange  for  a 
servant 

"  B'shure  he  is  1  Straight  as  a  trivet,  curse  him  1  Safe  to 
spoil  everything — make  a  reg'lar  mucker  of  it" 

"  Are  you  sure  it  was  he?  " 

"Sure— sure  1  I  sh'd  think  so.  He's  give  me  good  reason, 
•v- curse  'im  1 " 

"  Did  you  speak  to  him  ?  n 

wYes — yes." 

■*  What  did  he  say  to  you  ?  " 

"Not  much  said— not  much.  It's  what  he's— what  he's 
done." 

"What?"  * 

F 


66  The  Child  Wife. 


"  Devil  of  a  lot —yes — yes.  Never  mind  now.  Let's  go  to 
bed,  Frank.  'Tell  you  all  'bout  in  the  morning.  Game's  up. 
Tis  by  J— Jupiter  ! " 

As  if  incapable  of  continuing  the  dialogue — much  less  of  un- 
dressing himself — Mr.  Swinton  staggered  across  to  the  bed  ;  and, 
sinking  down  upon  it,  was  soon  snoring  and  asleep. 

Ii  might  seem*-  strange  that  the  servant  should  lie  down  beside 
him,  which  he  did. 

Not  after  knowing  that  the  little  valet  was  his  wife ! 

It  was  the  amiable  "  Fan  "  who  thus  shared  the  couch  of  has 
inebriate  husband. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

CHALLENGING  THE  CHALLENGER. 

"  iN  faith,  I've  done  a  very  foolish  thing,"  reflected  the  yousag 
Irishman,  as  he  entered  his  dormitory,  and  flung  himself  into  a 
rhair.  "  Still  there  was  no  help  for  it.  Such  talk  as  that,  even 
uom  a  stranger  like  Dick  Swinton,  would  play  the  deuce  with  me. 
Of  course  they  don't  know  him  here ;  and  he  appears  to  be  play- 
ing a  great  part  among  them  ;  no  doubt  plucking  such  half 
fledged  pigeons  as  those  with  him  below. 

"  Very  likely  he  said  something  of  the  same  to  the  girl's 
mother — to  herself?  Perhaps  that's  why  I've  been  treated  so 
uncourteously !  Well,  I  have  him  on  the  hip  now ;  and  shall 
make  him  repent  his  incautious  speeches.  Kicked  out  of  the 
British  service  !  Lying  cur,  to  have  said  it !  To  have  thought  of 
such  a  thing  !  And  from  what  I've  heard  it's  but  a  leaf  from  his 
own  history  !  This  may  have  suggested  it.  I  don't  believe  he's 
any  longer  in  the  Guards  :  else  what  should  he  be  doing  out 
here?  Guardsmen  don't  leave  London  and  its  delights  without 
strong,  and  generally  disagreeable,  reasons.  I'd  lay  all  I've  got 
he's  been  disgraced.  He  was  on  the  edge  of  it  when  I  last  heard 
of  him. 

"  He'll  fight  of  course  ?  He  wouldn't  if  he  could  help  it — I 
*&now  the  sweep  well  enough  for  that.  But  I've  given  him  no 
chance  to  get  out  of  it.  A  kid  glove  across  the  face,  to  say 
nothing  of  a  threat  to  spit  in  it — with  a  score  of  strange  gentle- 
men looking  on  and  listening  !  If  ten  times  the  poltroon  he  is, 
he  dare  not  show  the  white  feather  now. 

**  Of  course  he'll  call  me  out ;  and  what  am  I  to  do  for  a 
second?  The  three  or  four  fellows  I've  scraped  companionship 
with  here  are  not  the  men —one  of  them.  Besides,  none  of  them 
might  care  to  oblige  me  on  such  short  acquaintance? 

"  What  the  deuce  am  I  to  do  ?    Telegraoh  to  the  Count  ?  "  hs 


68  The  Child  Wife, 


continued,  after  a  pause  spent  in  reflecting.  "  He's  in  New  York, 
I  know ;  and  know  he  would  come  on  at  once.  It's  just  the  sort 
of  thing  would  delight  the  vieux  sabreur,  now  that  the  Mexican 
affair  is  ended,  and  he's  once  more  compelled  to  sheathe  his 
revolutionary  sword.  Come  in  !  Who  the  deuce  knocks  at  a 
gentleman's  door  at  this  unceremonious  hour  ?  " 

It  was  not  yet  5  a.m.  Outside  the  hotel  could  be  heard 
carriage-  wheels  rolling  off  with  late  roisterers,  who  had  outstayed 
the  balk 

"  Surely  it's  too  soon  for  an  emissary  from  Swinton  ?  Come 
in!" 

The  door  opening  at  the  summons,  discovered  the  night-porter 
of  the  hotel. 

"  Well !  what  want  you,  my  man  ?  * 

"  A  gentleman  wants  yout  sir." 

"Show  him  up  I " 

"  He  told  me,  sir,  to  give  you  his  apologies  for  disturbing  you 
at  so  early  an  hour.     It's  because  his  business  is  very  important" 

"  Bosh !  Why  need  he  have  said  that  ? "  Dick  Swinton's 
friend  must  be  a  more  delicate  gentleman  than  himself ! 

The  last  speech  was  in  soliloquy,  and  not  to  the  porter. 

"  He  said,  sir,"  continued  the  latter,  "  that  having  come  by  the 
boat " 

"By  the  boat?" 

"Yes,  sir,  the  New  York  boat     She's  just  in." 

••Yes — yes  ;  I  heard  the  whistle.     Well  ?  " 

"  That  having  come  by  the  boat,  he  thought — he  thought " 

"  Confound  it !  my  good  fellow ;  don't  stay  to  tell  me  his 
thoughts  secondhand.  Where  is  he  ?  Show  him  up  here,  and 
let  him  speak  them  for  himself." 

"  From  New  York  ?  "  continued  Maynard,  after  the  porter  had 
disappeared.  "Who  of  the  Knickerbockers  can  it  be?  And 
what  business  of  such  importance  as  to  startle  a  fellow  from  his 
sleep  at  half-past  four  in  the  morning — supposing  me  to  have 
been  asleep — which  luckily  I'm  not.  Is  the  Empire  city  ablaze, 
and  Fernando  Wood,  like  a  second  Nero,  fiddling  in  ruthless  glee 
over  its  ruins  ?    Ha  t  Roseveldt  1  • 

"  Maynard  1 " 


Challenging  the  Challenger,  69 

The  tone  of  the  exchanged  salutation  told  of  a  meeting  unex- 
pected, and  after  a  period  of  separation.  It  was  followed  by  a 
mutual  embrace.  Theirs  was  a  friendship  too  fervent  to  be 
satisfied  with  the  shaking  of  hands.  '  Fellow  campaigners — as 
friends — they  had  stood  side  by  side  under  the  hissing  hail-storm 
of  battle.  Side  by  side  had  they  charged  up  the  difficult  steep  of 
Chapultepec,  in  the  face  of  howitzers  belching  forth  their  deadly 
shower  of  shot — side  by  side  fallen  on  the  crest  of  the  counter- 
scarp, their  blood  streaming  unitedly  into  the  ditch. 

They  had  not  seen  each  other  since.  No  wonder  they  should 
meet  with  emotions  corresponding  to  the  scenes  through  which 
they  had  passed. 

Some  minutes  passed  before  either  could  find  coherent  speech. 
They  only  exchanged  ejaculations.  Maynard  was  the  first  to 
become  calm. 

"  God  bless  you,  my  dear  Count ! "  he  said ;  "  my  grand 
instructor  in  the  science  of  war.     How  glad  I  am  to  see  you ! " 

"Not  more  than  I  to  see  you,  cher  camaradel  " 

"  But  say,  why  are  you  here  ?  I  did  not  expect  you ;  though 
strange  enough  I  was  this  moment  thinking  of  you  1" 

"  I'm  here  to  see  you — specially  you  !  " 

"Ah  I     For  what,  my  dear  Roseveldt  ?" 

"  You've  said  that  I  instructed  you  in  the  science  of  war.  Be 
it  so.  But  trje  pupil  now  excels  his  teacher — has  gone  far  beyond 
him  in  fame.     That's  why  I'm  here." 

"  Explain  yourself,  Count ! " 

"  Read  this.  It  will  save  speech.  You  see  it  is  addressed  to 
yourself." 

Maynard  took  the  sealed  letter  handed  to  him.  It  bore  the 
superscription, 

"Captain  Maynard." 

Breaking  it  open,  he  read  : 

"  The  committee  of  German  refugees  in  New  York,  in  view  0' 
the  late  news  from  Europe,  have  hopes  that  freedom  is  not  yet 
extinguished  in  their  ancient  fatherland.  They  have  determined 
upon  once  more  returning  to  it,  and  taking  part  in  the  struggle 
again  begun  in  Baden  and  the  Palatinate.     Impressed  by  the 


70  The  Child  Wife.  I 

gallantry  displayed  by  you  in  the  late  Mexican  war,  with  your 
protective  kindness  to  their  countrymen  who  served  under  >ou — 
and  above  all,  your  well-known  devotion  to  the  cause  of  liberty — 
thev  have  unanimously  resolved  to  offer  you  the  leadership  in 
this  enterprise.  While  aware  of  its  perils — as  also  of  your  courage 
to  encounter  them— they  can  promise  you  no  reward  save  that  of 
glory  and  a  nation's  gratitude.  To  achieve  this,  they  offer  you  a 
nation's  trust.     Say,  sir,  are  you  prepared  to  accept  it  ?  " 

Some  half  dozen  names  were  appended,  at  which  Maynard 
simply  glanced.  He  knew  the  men,  and  had  heard  of  the  move- 
ment. 

"  I  accept,"  he  said,  after  a  few  seconds  spent  in  reflection, 
"  You  can  carry  that  answer  back  to  the  committee." 

'■  Carry  back  an  answer  !  My  dear  Maynard,  1  come  to  carry 
you  back." 

"Must  I  go  directly?" 

"  This  very  day  The  rising  in  Baden  has  begun,  and  you 
know  revolutions  won't  wait  for  any  one,  Every  hour  is  impor- 
tant. You  are  expected  back  by  the  next  boat.  I  hope  there's 
nothing  to  prevent  it?    What !     There  is  something?" 

"There  is  j  something  rather  awkward." 

"  Not  a  woman  ?  No — no!  You're  too  much  of  a  soldier  for 
that." 

"  No;  not  a  woman." 

As  Maynard  said  this  a  strange  expression  came  over  his  coun- 
tenance, as  if  he  was  struggling  against  the  truth. 

"No— no!"  he  continued,  with  a  forced  smile.  "Not  a 
iroman.  It's  only  a  man ;  indeed  only  a  thing  in  the  shape  of 
one." 

"  Explain,  captain  !     Who,  or  what  is  he?" 

"Well,  it's  simply  an  affair.  About  an  hour  ago  I  slapped  a 
fellow  in  the  face." 

"Ha!" 

"There's  been  a  ball  to-night— in  the  hotel,  here." 

"  I  know  it.     I  met  some  of  the  people  going  away.     Well?1' 

u  There  was  a  young  lady " 

M I  might  have  known  that,  too.     Who  ever  neard  of  an  aflat? 


Challenging  the  Challenger,  71 


without  a  lady,  young  or  old,  at  the  bottom  of  it  ?     But  excuse 

me  for  interrupting  you." 

"  After  all,"  said  Maynard,  apparently  changing  his  tack,  "  I 
needn't  stay  to  tell  you  about  the  lady.  She  had  little  or  nothing 
to  do  with  it.  It  occurred  in  the  bar-room  after  the  ball  was 
over,  and  she  in  her  bed,  I  suppose." 

"  Leave  her  to  one  side  then,  and  let  her  sleep." 

"  I  had  gone  into  this  bar-room  to  take  a  drink,  by  way  ot 
night-cap,  and  was  standing  by  the  counter,  when  I  heard  some 
one  making  rather  free  use  of  my  name.  Three  men  were  close 
beside  me,  talking  in  a  very  fast  style,  and,  as  I  soon  discovered, 
about  myself.  They  had  been  imbibing  a  good  deal,  and  did  not 
chance  to  see  me. 

"  One  of  the  three  I  had  known  in  England,  when  we  were 
both  in  the  British  service. 

"The  other  two— Americans  I  suppose  them — I  had  only 
seen  for  the  first  time  some  two  days  ago.  Indeed,  I  had  then  a 
little  difficulty  with  them,  which  I  needn't  stay  to  trouble  you 
about  now;  though  I  more  than  half  expected  to  have  had  a 
challenge  for  that.  It  didn't  come,  however  ;  and  you  may  guess 
what  sort  they  are. 

"  It  was  my  quondam  acquaintance  of  the  English  army  who 
was  taking  liberties  with  my  character,  in  answer  to  inquiries  the 
other  two  were  putting  to  him." 

"  What  was  he  telling  them  ?  " 

"No  end  of  lies;  the  worst  of  them  being  that  I  had  been 
kicked  out  of  the  British  service  !  Of  course  it  was  also  his  last- 
After  that n 

"  Aftei  that  you  kicked  him  out  of  the  bar-room.  I  fancy  I 
can  see  you  engaged  in  that  little  bit  of  foot  practice  ! " 

"  I  was  not  quite  so  rude  as  that.  I  only  slashed  him  across 
the  cheek  with  my  glove,  and  then  handed  him  my  card. 

"In  truth,  when  you  were  announced  I  thought  it  was  his 
friend,  and  not  mine  :  though,  knowing  the  man  as  I  do,  the  idea 
of  his  sending  a  messenger  so  early  rather  surprised  me. 

"  I'm  glad  you've  come,  Count.  I  was  in  a  devil  of  a  dilemma 
—being  acquainted  with  nobody  here  who  could  have  served  me 
for  a  second.     I  suppose  I  can  reckon  upon  you  ?  " 


72  The  Child  Wife. 


"  Oh,  that  of  course,"  answered  the  Count,  with  as  much 
insouciance  as  if  he  had  been  only  asked  for  a  cigar.  "  But,"  he 
added,  "  is  there  no  way  by  which  this  meeting  may  be  avoided?"  / 

It  was  not  any  craven  thought  that  dictated  the  interrogatory. 
A  glance  at  Count  Roseveldt  would  have  satisfied  any  one  of  this, 

Full  forty  years  of  age,  with  moustache  and  whisker  just  begin- 
ning to  show  steel-gray,  of  true  martial  bearing,  he  at  once 
jmpressed  you  as  a  man  who  had  seen  much  practice  in  the 
terrible  trade  of  the  duello.  At  the  same  time  there  was  about 
him  no  air  either  of  the  bully  or  bravado.  On  the  contraiy,  his 
features  were  marked  by  an  expression  of  mildness — on  occasions 
only  changing  to  stern. 

One  of  these  changes  came  over  them,  as  Maynard  emphatically 
made  answer : 

"No." 

"  Sacre  /  "  he  said,  hissing  out  a  French  exclamation.  "  How 
provoking  !  To  think  such  an  important  matter — the  liberty  of 
all  Europe — should  suffer  from  such  a  paltry  mischance  I  It  has 
been  well  said  that  woman  is  the  curse  of  mankind  ! 

"  Have  you  any  idea,"  he  continued,  after  this  ungallant  speech, 
u  when  the  fellow  is  likely  to  send  in  ?  " 

"  Not  any.  Some  time  during  the  day,  I  take  it.  There  can 
be  no  cause  for  delay  that  I  can  think  of.  Heaven  knows,  we're 
near  enough  each  other,  since  both  are  stopping  in  the  same 
hotel." 

"  Challenge  some  time  during  the  day.  Shooting,  or  whatever 
it  may  be,  to-morrow  morning.  No  railway  from  here,  and  boat 
only  once  a  day.  Leaves  Newport  at  7  p.m.  A  clear  twenty-four 
hours  lost !     Sac-r-rel" 

These  calculations  were  in  soliloquy ;  Count  Roseveldt,  as  he 
made  them,  torturing  his  great  moustache,  and  looking  at  some 
imaginary  object  between  his  feet 

Maynard  remained  silent. 

The  Count  continued  his  sotto  voce  speeches,  now  and  then 
breaking  into  ejaculations  delivered  in  a  louder  tone,  and  in- 
differently in  French,  English,  Spanish,  and  German. 

"By  heavens,  I  have  it  I"  he  at  length  exclaimed,' at  the  same 
time  starting  to  his  feet.     "I  have  it,  Maynard  1  I  have  it!" 


Challenging  tJu  Challe?iger*  73 

"  What  has  occurred  to  you,  my  dear  Count  ?  " 

"  A  plan  to  save  time.  We'll  go  back  to  New  York  by  this 
evening's  boat ! " 

"  Not  before  fighting  !  I  presume  you  include  that  in  your 
calculations  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I  do.     We'll  fight,  and  be  in  time  all  the  same." 

If  Maynard  had  been  a  man  of  delicate  susceptibilities  he 
might  have  reflected  on  the  uncertainty  of  such  a  programme. 

He  merely  asked  for  its  explanation. 

"  Perfectly  simple,"  responded  the  Count.  "You  are  to  be  the 
challenged  party,  and,  of  course,  have  your  choice  both  of  time 
and  weapons.  No  matter  about  the  weapons.  It's  the  time  that 
concerns  us  so." 

"  You'd  bring  off  the  affair  to-day  ?  * 

"  Would,  and  will." 

u  How  if  the  challenge  arrive  too  late — in  the  evening  say?" 

"  Carrambo !  —  to  use  our  old  Mexican  shibboleth  —  I've 
thought  of  that— of  everything.  The  challenge  shall  come  early 
— must  come,  if  your  adversary  be  a  gentleman.  I've  hit  upon  a 
plan  to  force  it  out  of  him  in  good  time." 

"  Your  plan  ?  " 

"You'll  write  to  him — that  is,  I  shall — to  say  you  are  com- 
pelled to  leave  Newport  to-night ;  that  a  matter  of  grand  import- 
ance has  suddenly  summoned  you  away.  Appeal  to  him,  as  a 
man  of  honour,  to  send  in  his  invitation  at  once,  so  that  you  may 
arrange  a  meeting.  If  he  don't  do  so,  by  all  the  laws  of  honour 
you  will  be  free  to  go,  at  any  hour  you  may  name." 

"  That  will  be  challenging  the  challenger.     Will  it  be  correct?" 

"  Of  course  it  will.  I'll  be  answerable.  It's  altogether  en  regie 
— strictly  according  to  the  code." 

"  I  agree  to  it,  then." 

M  Enough !  I  must  set  about  composing  the  letter.  Being  a 
little  out  of  the  common,  it  will  require  some  thought.  Where 
are  your  pens  and  ink  ?  " 

Maynard  pointed  to  a  table,  on  which  were  the  writing 
materials. 

Drawing  up  a  chair,  Roseveldt  seated  himself  beside  it 

Then,  taking  hold  of  a  pen,  and  spreading  a  sheet  of  "  cream 


74  The  Child   Wife. 


laid  M  before  him,  he  proceeded  to  write  the  premonitory  epistle, 
scarce  consulting  the  man  most  interested  in  what  it  might  con- 
tain. Thinking  of  the  revolution  in  Baden,  he  was  most  anxious 
to  set  free  his  friend  from  the  provoking  compromise,  so  that 
both  might  bear  the  flag  of  freedom  through  his  beloved  father- 
land. 

The  note  was  soon  written  ;  a  copy  carefully  taken,  folded  up, 
and  shoved  into  an  envelope.  Maynard  scarce  allowed  the 
opportunity  of  reading  it ! 

It  had  to  be  addressed  by  his  directions,  and  was  sent  to 
Mr,  Richard  Swinton,  just  as  the  great  gong,  screaming  through 
the  corridors  of  the  Ocean  House,  proclaimed  to  its  guests  tbs 
hour  for  dejeutu*  a  la  fourchette. 


CHAPTER   XIV. 

A   REQUEST    FOR    A    QUICK    FIGHT. 

The  first  shriek   of  the   gong   startled   Mr.    Swinton  from  his 

slumber. 

Springing  out  of  his  couch,  he  commenced  pacing  the  floor 
with  an  unsteady  stride. 

He  was  in  the  dress  he  had  worn  at  the  ball,  the  straw  kids 
excepted. 

But  he  was  not  thinking  either  of  dress  or  toilet.  His  mind 
was  in  an  agony  of  excitement  that  precluded  all  thoughts  about 
personal  appearance.  Despite  the  ringing  in  his  brain,  it  was 
clear  enough  for  him  to  recall  the  occurrences  of  the  night.  Too 
well  did  he  remember  to  what  he  had  committed  himself. 

His  apprehensions  were  of  a  varied  character.  Maynard  knew 
him  of  old ;  and  was  perhaps  acquainted  with  his  later,  and  less 
creditable,  history.  His  character  would  be  made  known ;  and 
his  grand  scheme  frustrated." 

But  this  was  nothing  compared  with  the  other  matter  upon  his 
mind — the  stain  upon  his  cheek — that  could  only  be  wiped  out  at 
the  risk  of  losing  his  life. 

He  shivered,  as  he  went  staggering  around  the  room.  His  dis- 
composure was  too  plain  to  escape  the  notice  of  his  wife.  In  his 
troubled  look  she  read  some  terrible  tale. 

"What  is  it,  Dick?"  she  asked,  laying  her  hand  upon  his 
shoulder.  "There's  been  something  unpleasant  Tell  me  all 
about  it." 

There  was  a  touch  of  tenderness  in  the  tone.  Even  the  scarred 
heart  of  the  "  pretty  horsebreaker  "  had  still  left  in  it  some  vestige 
of  woman's  divine  nature. 

"  You've  had  a  quarrel  with  Maynard?"  she  continued.  "Is 
that  it  ?  " 

"Yes!"  hoarsely  responded  the  husband.  "All  sorts  of  a 
quarrel." 


j6  Tlie  Child  Wife. 


"  How  did  it  arise  ?  " 

In  speech  not  very  coherent — for  the  alcoholic  tremor  was 
upon  him — he  answered  the  question,  by  giving  an  account  of 
what  had  passed — not  even  concealing  his  own  discreditable  con- 
duct in  the  affair. 

There  was  a  time  when  Richard  Swinton  would  not  have  so 
freely  confessed  himself  to  Frances  Wilder.  It  had  passed,  having 
scarce  survived  their  honeymoon.  The  close  companionship  of 
matrimony  had  cured  both  of  the  mutual  hallucination  that  had 
made  them  man  and  wife.  The  romance  of  an  unhallowed  love 
had  died  out ;  and  along  with  it  what  little  respect  they  might 
have  had  for  one  another's  character.  On  his  side  so  effectually, 
that  he  had  lost  respect  for  himself,  and  he  took  but  little  pains 
to  cover  the  uneasiness  he  felt — in  the  eyes  of  his  wedded  wife — 
almost  confessing  himself  a  coward. 

It  would  have  been  idle  for  him  to  attempt  concealing  it  She 
had  long  since  discovered  this  idiosyncracy  in  his  character — 
perhaps  more  than  all  else  causing  her  to  repent  the  day  when 
she  stood  beside  him  at  the  altar.  The  tie  that  bound  her  to  him 
now  was  but  that  of  a  common  danger,  and  the  necessity  of  self- 
preservation. 

"You  expect  him  to  send  you  a  challenge ?"  said  she,  a 
woman,  and  of  course  ignorant  of  the  etiquette  of  the  duel. 

M  No,"  he  replied,  correcting  her.  "  That  must  come  from  me 
— as  the  party  insulted.  If  it  had  only  been  otherwise — "  he 
went  on  muttering  to  himself.  "  What  a  mistake  not  to  pitch  into 
him  on  the  spot !  If  I'd  only  done  that,  the  thing  might  have 
ended  there ;  or  at  all  events  left  me  a  corner  to  creep  out  of." 

This  last  was  not  spoken  aloud.  The  ex-guardsman  was  not 
yet  so  grandly  degraded  as  to  make  such  a  humiliating  confession 
to  his  wife.     She  might  see,  but  not  hear  it 

"No  chance  now,"  he  continued  to  reflect  "Those  two 
fellows  present.  Besides  a  score  of  others,  witnesses  to  all  that 
passed ;  heard  every  word ;  saw  the  blow  given ;  and  the  cards 
exchanged.  It  will  be  the  talk  of  the  hotel  1  I  must  fight,  or  be 
for  ever  disgraced  1 " 

Another  turn  across  the  room,  and  an  alternative  presented 
itselt     Itwastlight! 


A  Request  Jor  a  Quick  Fight.  77 

"  I  might  pack  up,  and  clear  out  of  the  place,"  pursued  he, 
giving  way  to  the  cowardly  suggestion  "What  could  it  matter? 
No  one  here  knows  me  as  yet ;  and  my  face  might  not  be  remem- 
bered. But  my  name  ?  They'll  get  that.  He'll  be  sure  to  make 
it  known,  and  the  truth  will  meet  me  everywhere !  To  think,  too, 
of  the  chance  I  should  lose — a  fortune  !  I  feel  sure  I  could  have 
made  it  all  right  with  this  girl.  The  mother  on  my  side  already  ! 
Half  a  million  of  dollars — the  whole  one  in  time !  Worth  a  life 
of  plotting  to  obtain — worth  the  risk  of  a  life  ;  ay,  of  one's  soul  I 
It's  lost  if  I  go ;  can  be  won  if  I  only  stay  !  Curse  upon  my 
tongue  for  bringing  me  into  this  scrape  1  Better  I'd  been  born 
dumb  1 " 

He  continued  to  pace  the  floor,  now  endeavouring  to  fortify 
his  courage  to  the  point  of  fighting,  and  now  giving  way  to  the 
cowardly  instincts  of  his  nature. 

While  thus  debating  with  himself,  he  was  startled  by  a  tapping 
at  the  door. 

"See  who  it  is,  Fan,"  he  said  in  a  hurried  whisper.  "Step 
outside;  and  whoever  it  is,  don't  let  them  look  in." 

Fan,  still  in  her  disguise  of  valet,  glided  to  the  door,  opened  it, 
and  looked  out. 

"  A  waiter,  I  suppose,  bringing  my  boots  or  shaving-water  ?  " 

This  was  Mr.  Swinton's  reflection. 

It  was  a  waiter,  but  not  with  either  of  the  articles  named. 
Instead,  he  was  the  bearer  of  an  epistle. 

It  was  delivered  to  Fan,  who  stood  in  the  passage,  keeping  the 
door  closed  behind  her.  She  saw  that  it  was  addressed  to  her  hus- 
band    It  bore  no  postmark,  and  appeared  but  recently  written, 

"  Who  sent  it  ?  "  was  her  inquiry,  couched  in  a  careless  tone, 

"What's  that  to  you,  cock-sparrow?"  was  the  rejoinder  of  the 
hotel-servant,  inclined  toward  chaffing  the  servitor  of  the  English 
gentleman — in  his  American  eyes,  tainted  with  flunkeyism. 

"  Oh,  nothing  1 "  modestly  answered  Frank. 

"  If  you  must  know,"  said  the  other,  apparently  mollified,  "  it's 
from  a  gentleman  who  came  by  this  morning's  boat — a  big,  black 
fellow,  six  feet  high,  with  moustaches  at  least  six  inches  long.  I 
guess  your  master  will  know  all  about  him.  Anyhow,  that's  all 
I  know." 


;8  The  Child  Wife. 


Without  more  words,  the  waiter  handed  over  the  letter,  and 
took  himself  off  to  the  performance  of  other  duties. 

Fan  re-entered  the  room,  and  handed  the  epistle  to  her  hus- 
band. 

•'  By  the  morning  boat?"  said  Swinton.  "From  New  York? 
Of  course,  there's  no  other.  Who  can  have  come  thence,  that's 
got  any  business  with  me  ?  " 

It  just  flashed  across  his  mind  that  acceptances  given  in  Eng- 
land could  be  transmitted  to  America.  It  was  only  a  question  of 
transfer,  the  drawer  becoming  endorser.  And  Richard  Swinton 
knew  that  there  were  lawyers  of  the  tribe  of  Levi,  who  had  trans- 
actions in  this  kind  of  stamped  paper,  corresponding  with  each 
other  across  the  Atlantic. 

Was  it  one  of  his  London  bills  forwarded  to  the  American 
correspondent,  ten  days  before  the  day  of  dishonour  ? 

Such  was  the  suspicion  that  came  into  his  mind  while  listening 
to  the  dialogue  outside.  And  it  remained  there,  till  he  had  torn 
open  the  envelope,  and  commenced  reading. 

He  read  as  follows : 

"  Sir, — As  the  friend  of  Captain  Maynard,  and  referring  to 
what  occurred  between  him  and  you  last  night,  I  address  you. 

"Circumstances  of  an  important— indeed,  peremptory — charac- 
ter require  his  presence  elsewhere,  necessitating  him  to  leave 
Newport  by  the  boat  which  takes  departure  at  8  p.m.  Between 
this  and  then  there  are  twelve  hours  of  daylight,  enough  to  settle 
the  trilling  dispute  between  you.  Captain  Maynard  appeals  to 
you,  as  a  gentleman,  to  accept  his  offer  for  quick  satisfaction 
Should  you  decline  it,  I,  speaking  as  his  friend,  and  believing 
myself  tolerably  well  acquainted  with  the  code  of  honour,  shall 
feel  justified  in  absolving  him  from  any  further  action  relating  to 
the  affair,  and  shall  be  prepared  to  defend  him  against  any  asper- 
sions that  may  arise  from  it. 

"Until  7.30  p.m. — allowing  half  an  hour  to  reach  the  boat — ■ 
your  friend  will  find  me  in  Captain  Maynard's  room. 
"  Yours  obediently, 

"  Rupert  Roseveldt. 
"  (Count  of  'he  Austrian  Empire.)* 


A  Request  for  a  Quick  Fight.  79 

Twice,  without  stopping,  did  Swinton  peruse  this  singular 
epistle. 

Its  contents,  instead  of  adding  to  the  excitement  of  his  spirit, 
seemed  to  have  the  effect  of  tranquillizing  it. 

Something  like  a  smile  of  satisfaction  stole  over  his  counte- 
nance, while  engaged  in  the  second  reading. 

"  Fan  !  "  he  said,  slipping  the  letter  into  his  pocket,  and  turn- 
ing hastily  toward  his  wife,  "  ring  the  bell,  and  order  brandy  and 
soda — some  cigars,  too.  And,  hark  ye,  girl  :  for  your  life,  don't 
let  the  waiter  put  his  nose  inside  the  room,  or  see  into  it.  Take 
the  tray  from  hirr.,  as  he  comes  to  the  door.  Say  to  him,  besides, 
that  I  won't  be  able  to  go  down  to  breakfast— that  I've  been  in- 
dulging last  night,  and  am  so-so  this  morning.  You  may  add  that 
I'm  in  bed.  All  this  in  a  confidential  way,  so  that  he  may  believe 
it.  I  have  my  reasons— good  reasons.  So  have  a  care,  and  don't 
make  a  mull  of  it." 

Silently  obedient,  she  rang  the  bell,  which  was  soon  answered 
by  a  knock  at  the  door. 

Instead  of  calling  "  Come  in  I*  Fan,  standing  ready  inside  the 
room,  stepped  out — closing  the  door  after  her,  and  retaining  the 
knob  in  her  hand. 

He  who  answered  was  the  same  jocular  fellow  who  had  called 
her  a  cock-sparrow. 

"Some  brandy  and  soda,  James.  Ice,  of  course.  And  stay — 
what  else  ?  Oh  !  some  cigars.  You  may  bring  half  a  dozen.  My 
master,"  she  added,  before  the  waiter  could  turn  away,  "don't 
intend  going  down  to  breakfast." 

This  with  a  significant  smile,  that  secured  James  for  a  parley. 

It  came  off;  and  before  leaving  to  execute  the  order,  he  was 
made  acquainted  with  the  helpless  condition  of  the  English  gent 
who  occupied  No.  149. 

In  this  there  was  nothing  to  surprise  him.  Mr.  Swinton  was 
not  the  only  guest  under  his  charge,  who  on  that  particular  morn- 
ing required  brandy  and  soda.  James  rather  rejoiced  at  it,  as 
giving  him  claim  for  an  increased  perquisite. 

The  drink  was  brought  up,  along  with  the  cigars,  and  taken  in 
as  directed  ;  the  gentleman's  servant  giving  the  waiter  no  oppor- 
tunity to  gratify  curiosity  by  a  sight  of  his  suffering  master.     Even 


*(>  The  Child  Wife. 


had  the  door  been  left  open,  and  James  admitted  to  the  room,  he 
would  not  have  gone  out  of  it  one  whit  the  wiser.  He  could  only 
have  told  that  Frank's  master  was  still  abed,  his  face  buried  under 
the  bedclothes  1 

To  make  sure  against  surprise,  Mr.  Swinton  had  assumed  this 
interesting  attitude  ;  and  for  reasons  unknown  even  to  his  own 
valet.  On  the  rebolting  of  the  door,  he  flung  off  the  coverlet, 
and  once  more  commenced  treading  the  carpet. 

"  Was  it  the  same  waiter  ?  "  he  asked  ;  "  he  that  brought  the 
letter?" 

"  It  was — James — you  know ! v 

u  So  much  the  better.  Out  with  that  cork,  Fan  1  I  want  some- 
thing to  settle  my  nerves,  and  make  me  fit  for  a  good  think ! " 

While  the  wire  was  being  twisted  from  the  soda  bottle,  he  took 
hold  of  a  cigar,  bit  off  the  end,  lit,  and  commenced  smoking  it 

He  drank  the  brandy  and  soda  at  a  single  draught ;  in  ten 
minutes  after  ordering  another  dose,  and  soon  again  a  third. 

Several  times  he  re-read  Roseveldt's  letter — each  time  returning 
it  to  his  pocket,  and  keeping  its  contents  from  Fan. 

At  intervals  he  threw  himself  upon  the  bed,  back  downward, 
the  cigar  held  between  his  teeth ;  again  to  get  up  and  stride 
around  the  room  with  the  impatience  of  a  man  waiting  for  some 
important  crisis — doubtful  whether  it  may  come. 

And  thus  did  Mr.  Swinton  pass  the  day,  eleven  long  hours  of 
it,  inside  his  sleeping  apartment  1 

Why  this  manoeuvring,  seemingly  so  eccentric  ? 

He  alone  knew  the  reason.  He  had  not  communicated  it  ta 
his  wife — no  more  the  contents  of  the  lately  received  letter — 
leaving  her  to  indulge  in  conjectures  not  very  flattering  to  her  lord 
and  master. 

Six  brandies  and  sodas  were  ordered,  and  taken  in  with  the 
same  caution  as  the  first.  They  were  all  consumed,  and  as  many 
cigars  smoked  by  him  during  the  day.  Only  a  plate  of  soup  and 
a  crust  for  his  dinner — the  dish  that  follows  a  night  of  dissipation. 
With  Mr.  Swinton  it  was  a  day  of  dissipation,  that  did  not  end 
till  7.30  p.m. 

At  that  hour  an  event  occurred  that  caused  a  sudden  change 
in  his  tactics — transforming  him  from  au  eccentric  to  a  sane,  if 
not  sober,  man ! 


CHAPTER  XV. 

A     PARTING     GLANCE. 

Any  one  acquainted  with  the  topography  of  the  Ocean  House 
and  its  adjuncts,  knows  that  its  livery-stable  lies  eastward — ap- 
proached by  a  wide  way  passing  round  the  southern  end. 

On  that  same  evening,  exactly  at  half-past  seven  o'clock,  a 
carriage,  issuing  from  the  stable-yard,  came  rolling  along  toward 
the  hotel.  Ey  the  absence  of  livery  coat,  and  the  badgeless  hat 
of  the  driver,  the  "hack"  was  proclaimed;  while  the  hour  told 
its  errand.  The  steamer's  whistle,  heard  upon  the  far-off  wharf, 
was  summoning  its  passengers  aboard ,  and  the  carriage  was  on 
its  way  to  the  piazza  of  the  hotel  to  take  up  "  departures." 

Instead  of  going  round  to  the  front,  it  stopped  by  the  southern 
end — where  there  is  also  a  set  of  steps  and  a  double  door  of 
exit. 

Two  ladies,  standing  on  the  balcony  above,  saw  the  carriage 
draw  up,  but  without  giving  it  thought.  They  were  engaged  in 
a  conversation  more  interesting  than  the  sight  of  an  empty  hack, 
or  even  the  speculation  as  to  who  was  about  to  be  taken  by  it  to 
the  boat.  The  ladies  were  Julia  Girdwood  and  Cornelia  Inskip  ; 
the  subject  of  their  converse  the  "  difficulty  "  that  had  occurred 
between  Captain  Maynard  and  Mr.  Swinton,  which,  having  been 
all  day  the  talk  of  the  hotel,  had,  of  course,  penetrated  to  their 
apartment. 

Cornelia  was  sorry  it  had  occurred.  And,  in  a  way,  so  also  was 
Julia. 

But  in  another  way  she  was  not.  Secretly  she  took  credit  to 
herself  for  being  the  cause,  and  for  this  reason  secretly  felt  grati- 
fication. It  proved  to  her,  so  ran  her  surmises,  that  both  these 
men  must  have  had  her  in  their  mind  as  they  quarrelled  over 
their  cups ;  though  she  cared  less  for  the  thoughts  of  Swinton  than 
of  Maynard. 


8a  The  Child  Wife. 


As  yet  she  was  not  so  interested  in  either  as  to  be  profoundly 
anxious  about  the  affair.  Julia  Girdwood's  was  not  a  heart  to  be 
lost,  or  won,  within  the  hour. 

4*  Do  you  think  they  will  have  a  duel  ?  "  asked  the  timid  Cor- 
nelia, trembling  as  she  put  the  inquiry. 

"Of  course  they  will,"  responded  the'  more  daring  Julia. 
V  They  cannot  well  get  out  of  it — that  is,  Mr.  Swinton  cannot" 

"  And  suppose  one  of  them  should  kill  the  other  ?  " 

"  And  suppose  they  do — both  of  them — kill  one  another?  It's 
no  business  of  ours." 

"  Oh,  Julia  !     Do  you  think  it  is  not  ?" 

"  I'm  sure  it  isn't.  What  have  we  got  to  do  with  it  ?  I  should 
be  sorry,  of  course,  about  them,  as  about  any  other  foolish  gentle- 
men who  see  fit  to  take  too  much  drink.  I  suppose  that's  what 
did  it." 

She  only  pretended  to  suppose  this,  as  also  her  expressed  in- 
difference about  the  result. 

Though  not  absolutely  anxious,  she  was  yet  far  from  indifferent 
It  was  only  when  she  reflected  on  Maynard's  coolness  to  her  at 
the  close  of  the  ball,  that  she  endeavoured  to  feel  careless  about 
the  consequences. 

"  Who's  going  off  in  this  carriage  ?  "  she  asked,  her  attention 
once  more  drawn  to  it  by  the  baggage  being  brought  out. 

The  cousins,  leaning  over  the  balustrade,  looked  below. 
Lettered  upon  a  leathern  trunk,  that  had  seen  much  service,  they 
made  out  the  name,  "  CAPTAIN  MAYNARD,"  and  underneath 
the  well-known  initials,  "U.S.A." 

Was  it  possible  ?  Or  were  they  mistaken  ?  The  lettering  was 
dim,  and  at  a  distance.     Surely  they  were  mistaken  ? 

Julia  remained  with  eyes  fixed  upon  the  portmanteau.  Cornelia 
ran  to  her  room  to  fetch  a  lorgnette.  But  before  she  returned 
with  it,  the  instrument  was  no  longer  needed. 

Miss  Girdwood,  still  gazing  down,  saw  Captain  Maynard  des- 
cend the  steps  of  the  hotel,  cross  over  to  the  carriage,  and  take 
his  seat  inside  it 

There  was  a  man  along  with  him,  but  she  only  gave  this  man 
a  glance.  Her  eyes  were  upon  the  ex-ofiicer  of  Mexican  celebrity, 
her  rescuer  from  the  perils  of  the  sea. 


A  Parting  Glance.  83 

Where   was   he   going?     His   baggage   and    the    boat-signal 

answered  this  question.' 

And  why  ?     For  this  it  was  not  so  easy  to  shape  a  response. 

Would  he  look  up  ? 

He  did  ;  on  the  instant  of  taking  his  seat  within  the  hack. 

Their  eyes  met  in  a  mutual  glance,  half  tender,  halt  reproachfu 
— on  both  sides  interrogatory. 

There  was  no  time  for  either  to  become  satisfied  about  the 
thoughts  of  the  other.  The  carriage  whirling  away,  parted  two 
strange  individuals  who  had  come  oddly  together,  and  almost  as 
oddly  separated — parted  them,  perhaps  for  ever  I 


There  was  another  who  witnessed  that  departure  with  perhaps 
as  much  interest  as  did  Julia  Gird  wood,  though  with  less  bitter- 
ness.    To  him  it  was  joy  :  for  it  is  Swinton  of  whom  we  speak. 

Kneeling  at  the  window  of  his  room,  on  the  fourth  storey — 
looking  down  through  the  slanted  laths  of  the  Venetians — he  saw 
the  hack  drive  up,  and  with  eager  eyes  watched  till  it  was  occupied. 
He  saw  also  the  two  ladies  below ;  but  at  that  moment  he  had  bo 
thoughts  for  them. 

It  was  like  removing  a  millstone  from  his  breast — the  relief  from 
some  long-endured  agony — when  Maynard  entered  the  carriage ; 
the  last  spasm  of  his  pain  passing,  as  the  whip  cracked,  and  the 
wheels  went  whirling  away. 

Little  did  he  care  for  that  distraught  look  given  by  Julia 
Girdwood ;  nor  did  he  stay  to  listen  whether  it  was  accompanied 
by  a  sigh. 

The  moment  the  carriage  commenced  moving,  he  sprang  to 
iiis  feet,  turned  his  back  upon  the  window,  and  called  out : 

"Fan  !" 

"  Well,  what  now  ?  "  was  the  response  from  his  pretended  sa- 
vant. 

"  About  this  matter  ^izh  IVUynaxd.  It's  time  for  me  to  call  rnra 
out     IV*  hser*  tfiinking  ail  day  of  how  I  can  find  a  second." 

J»-  *r<*s>  a  subterfuge  not  very  skilfully  conceived — a  weak, 
spasmodic  efiort  against  absolute  humiliation  in  the  eyes  of  his 
True. 


Th€  Child  Wife. 


"  You've  thought  of  one,  have  you  ?  "  interrogated  she,  in  a 
tone  almost  indifferent. 

M  I  have." 

"  And  who,  ptay  ?  " 

"  One  of  the  two  fellows  I  scraped  acquaintance  with  yesterday 
at  dinner.  I  met  them  again  last  night  Here's  his  name — Louis 
lucas." 

As  he  said  this  he  handed  her  a  card. 

"  What  do  you  want  me  to  do  with  it  ?  * 

"  Find  out  the  number  of  his  room.  The  clerk  will  tell  you, 
by  your  showing  the  card.  That's  all  I  want  now.  Stay  1  You 
may  ask,  also,  if  he's  in." 

Without  saying  a  word  she  took  the  card,  and  departed  on  her 
errand.  She  made  no  show  of  alacrity,  acting  as  if  she  were  an 
automaton. 

As  soon  as  she  had  passed  outside,  Swinton  drew  a  chair  to  the 
table,  and,  spreading  out  a  sheet  of  paper,  scribbled  some  lines 
upon  it 

Then  hastily  folding  the  sheet,  he  thrust  it  inside  an  envelope, 
upon  which  he  wrote  the  superscription : 

"  Lovia  Lucas,  Esq." 

By  this  time  his  messenger  had  returned,  and  announced  the 
accomplishment  of  her  errand.  Mr.  Lucas's  room  was  No.  90, 
and  he  was  "in." 

"  No.  90.  It's  below,  on  the  second  floor.  Find  it,  Fan,  and 
deliver  this  note  to  him.  Make  sure  you  give  it  into  his  own 
hands,  and  wait  till  he  reads  it.  He  will  either  come  himself,  or 
send  an  answer.  If  he  returns  with  you,  do  you  remain  outside, 
and  don't  show  yourself  till  you  see  him  go  out  again." 

For  the  second  time  Fan  went  forth  as  a  messenger. 

"  I  fancy  I've  got  this  crooked  job  straight,"  soliloquized 
Swinton,  as  soon  as  she  was  out  of  hearing.  "  Even  straighter 
than  it  was  before.  Instead  of  spoiling  my  game,  it's  likely  to 
prove  the  trump  card.  What  a  lucky  fluke  it  is  !  By  the  way, 
I  wonder  where  Maynard  can  be  gone,  or  what's  carried  him 
off  in  such  a  devil  of  a  hurry  ?  Ha  !  I  think  I  know  now.  It 
must  be  something  about  this  that's  in  the  New  York  papers. 
These  German  revolutionists,  chased  out  of  Europe  in  '48,  who 


A  Parting  Glance, 


are  getting  up  an  expedition  to  go  back.  Now  I  remember, 
there  was  a  count's  name  mixed  up  with  the  affair.  Yes — it  was 
Roseveldt !  This  must  be  the  man.  And  Maynard  ?  Going 
along  with  them,  no  doubt.  He  was  a  rabid  Radical  in  England. 
That's  his  game,  is  it  ?  Ha  !  ha  !  Splendid,  by  Jove  1  Playing 
ight  into  my  hands,  as  if  I  had  the  pulling  of  the  strings  1  Well, 
Fan  !     Have  you  delivered  the  note  ?  **. 

"  I  have." 

"  What  answer  ?     Is  he  coming  ?  n 

"He  is." 

"  But  when  ?  " 

"  He  said  directly.     I  suppose  that's  his  step  in  the  passage  ?  * 

"  Slip  out  then.      Quick — quick  !  " 

Without  protest  the  disguised  wife  did  as  directed,  though  not 
without  some  feeling  of  humiliation  at  the  part  she  had  consented 
to  play. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

A    SAFE    CHALLENGE. 

From  the  time  of  the  hack's  departure,  till  the  moment  when  the 
valet  was  so  hastily  sent  out  of  the  room,  Mr.  Swinton  had  been 
acting  as  a  man  in  full  possession  of  his  senses.  The  drink  taken 
during  the  day  had  but  restored  his  intellect  to  its  usual  strength  ; 
and  with  a  clear  brain  he  had  written  the  note  inviting  Mr.  Louis 
Lucas  to  an  interview.  He  had  solicited  this  interview  in  his 
own  apartment — accompanying  the  request  with  an  apology  for 
not  going  to  that  of  Mr.  Lucas.  The  excuse  was  that  he  was 
"laid  up." 

All  this  he  could  have  done  in  a  steady  hand,  and  with  choice 
diction ;  for  Richard  Swinton  was  neither  dunce  nor  ignoramus. 

Instead,  the  note  was  written  in  scribble,  and  with  a  chaotic 
confusion  of  phraseology  —  apparently  the  production  of  one 
suffering  from  the  "trembles." 

In  this  there  was  a  design  ;  as  also,  in  the  behaviour  of  Mr. 
Swinton,  when  he  heard  the  footfall  of  his  expected  visitor  coming 
along  the  corridor  in  the  direction  of  his  room.  His  action  was 
of  the  most  eccentric  kind — as  much  so  as  any  of  his  movements 
during  the  day. 

It  might  have  been  expected  that  the  ci-devant  habitue'  of  the 
Horse  Guards,  in  conformity  with  past  habits,  would-  have  mad: 
some  attempt  to  arrange  his  toilet  for  the  reception  of  a  stranger. 
Instead,  he  took  the  opposite  course  :  and  while  the  footsteDs  of 
Mr.  Lucas  were  resounding;  through  the  gallery.  inz  Hands  ot  Mr. 
Swinton  were  busy  in  making  mmselt  as  unpresentable  as  possible. 

wWv«^ng  0ff  the  dress-coat  he  had  worn  at  the  ball,  and  which 
in  his  distraction  he  had  all  day  carried  on  his  shoulders ;  flinging 
the  waistcoat  after,  and  then  slipping  his  arms  out  of  the  braces  j 
in  shirt  sleeves  and  with  hair  dishevelled,  he  stood  to  await  the 
incoming  of  his  visitor.  His  look  was  that  of  one  just  awakened 
from  the  slumber  of  intoxication. 

w 


A  Safe  Challenge.  Sy 


And  this  character — which  had  been  no  counterfeit  in  the 
morning — he  sustained  during  the  whole  time  that  the  stranger 
remained  in  his  room. 

Mr.  Lucas  had  no  suspicion  that  the  Englishman  was  acting. 
He  was  himself  in  just  that  condition  to  believe  in  its  reality; 
feeling,  and  as  he  confessed,  "  seedy  as  the  devil"  This  was  his 
speech,  in  return  to  the  salutations  of  Swinton. 

"Yas,  ba  Jawve!  I  suppo*  yaw  do.  I  feel  just  the  same 
way.     Aw — aw — I  must  have  been  asleep  for  a  week  !  " 

"  Well,  you've  missed  three  meals  at  least,  and  I  two  of  them, 
I  was  only  able  to  show  myself  at  the  supper-table." 

"  Suppaw  !     Yaw  don't  mean  to  say  it's  so  late  as  that  ?  " 
I  do  indeed.     Supper  we  call  it  in  this  country ;  though  I 
Delieve  in  England  it's  the  hour  at  which  you  dine.     It's  after 
eight  o'clock." 

"  Ba  heavins  !  This  is  bad.  I  wemembaw  something  that 
occurred  last  night.     Yaw  were  with  me,  were  you  not  ?  " 

"  Certainly  I  was.     I  gave  you  my  card." 

"  Yas — yas.  I  have  it.  A  fellaw  insulted  me — a  Mr.  Maynard. 
If  I  wemembaw  awight,  he  stwuck  me  in  the  face." 

"  That's  true  ;  he  did." 

*'  Am  I  wight  too  in  my  wecollection  that  yaw,  sir,  were  so 
vewy  obliging  as  to  say  yaw  would  act  for  me  as — as — a  fwend  ?  " 

"  Quite  right,"  replied  the  willing  Lucas,  delighted  with  the 
prospect  of  obtaining  satisfaction  for  his  own  little  private  wrong, 
and  without  danger  to  himself.  "  Quite  right.  I'm  ready  to  do 
as  i  said,  sir." 

"  Thanks,  Mr.  Lucas  !  a  world  of  thanks !  And  now  there's 
no  time  left  faw  fawther  talking.  By  Jawve  !  I've  slept  so  long 
as  to  bx?  in  danger  of  having  committed  myself !  Shall  I  wite 
out  the  challenge,  or  would  yaw  pwefer  to  do  it  yawself  ?  Yaw 
know  all  that  passed,  and  may  word  it  as  yaw  wish." 

"  There  need  be  no  difficulty  about  the  wording  of  it,"  said  the 
chosen  second,  who,  from  having  acted  in  like  capacity  before, 
was  fairly  acquainted  with  the  "code."  "In  your  case,  the  thing's 
exceedingly  simple.  This  Mr.  or  Captain  Maynard,  as  he's 
called,  iasuited  you  very  grossly.  I  hear  it's  the  talk  of  the  hoteL 
You  must  call  upon  him  to  go  out,  or  apologise." 


88  The  Child   Wife. 


"  Aw,  sawtingly.  I  shall  do  that.  Wite  faw  me,  and  I  shall 
sign." 

"Hadn't  you  better  write  yourself?  The  challenge  should  be 
in  your  own  hand.     I  am  only  the  bearer  of  it." 

"  Tvvue — twue  1  Confound  this  dwink.  It  makes  one  obwivioui 
of  everything.     Of  cawse  I  should  wite  it." 

Sitting  down  before  the  table,  with  a  hand  that  showed  do 
trembling,  Mr.  Swinton  wrote : 

"  Sir — Referring  to  our  interview  of  last  night,  I  demand  from 
you  the  satisfaction  due  to  a  gentleman,  whose  honour  you  have 
outraged.  That  satisfaction  must  be  either  a  meeting,  or  an 
ample  apology.  I  leave  you  to  take  your  choice.  My  friend, 
Mr.  Louis  Lucas,  will  await  your  answer. 

"  Richard  Swinton." 

"  Will  that  do,  think  you  ?  "  asked  the  ex-guardsman,  handing 
the  sheet  to  his  second. 

"  The  very  thing !  Short,  if  not  sweet.  I  like  it  all  the  better 
without  the  '  obedient  servant.1  It  reads  more  defiant,  and  will 
be  more  likely  to  extract  the  apology.  Where  am  I  to  take  it  ? 
You  have  his  card,  if  I  mistake  not  Does  it  tell  the  numbei  c* 
his  room  ?  " 

"Twue — twue  1     I  have  his  cawd.     We  shall  see." 

Taking  up  his  coat  from  the  floor,  where  he  had  flung  it, 
Swinton  fished  out  the  card.  There  was  no  number,  only  the 
name. 

"  No  matter,"  said  the  second,  clutching  at  the  bit  of  paste- 
board. "  Trust  me  to  discover  him.  I'll  be  back  with  his  answer 
before  you've  smoked  out  that  cigar." 

With  this  promise,  Mr.  Lucas  left  the  room. 

As  Mr.  Swinton  sat  smoking  the  cigar,  and  reflecting  upon  it, 
there  was  an  expression  upon  his  face  that  no  man  save  himself 
could  have  interpreted.  It  was  a  sardonic  smile  worthy  of 
Machiavelli. 

The  cigar  was  about  half  burned  out,  when  Mr.  Lucas  was 
heard  hurrying  back  along  the  corridor. 

In  an  instant  after  he  burst  into  the  room,  his  face  showing 
him  to  be  the  bearer  of  some  strange  intelligence. 


A  Safe  Challenge.  89 


"Well?"  inquired  Swinton,  in  a  tone  of  affected  coolness. 
M  What  says  our  tellaw  ?  " 

"  What  says  he  ?     Nothing." 

"  He  has  pwomised  to  send  the  answer  by  a  fwend,  I  pre- 
sume ?  " 

"  He  has  promised  me  nothing :  for  the  simple  reason  that  I 
haven't  seen  him  ! " 

"  Haven't  seen  him  ?  " 

"  No — nor  ain't  likely  neither.    The  coward  has  ■  swartouted.'  * 

"  Swawtuated  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  G.  T.  T.— gone  to  Texas !  " 

"  Ba  Jawve  !  Mr.  Lucas ;  I  don't  compwehend  yaw  ! " 

"  You  will,  when  I  tell  you  that  your  antagonist  has  left  New- 
port.     Gone  off  by  the  evening  boat." 

"  Honaw  bwight,  Mr.  Lucas  ?  "  cried  the  Englishman,  in  feigned 
astonishment.     "  Shawley  you  must  be  jawking." 

"  Not  in  the  least,  I  assure  you.  The  clerk  tells  me  he  paid 
his  hotel  bill,  and  was  taken  off  in  one  of  their  hacks.  Besides, 
I've  seen  the  driver  who  took  him,  and  who's  just  returned.  He 
says  that  he  set  Mr.  Maynard  down,  and  helped  to  carry  his 
baggage  aboard  the  boat.  There  was  another  man,  some  foreign- 
looking  fellow,  along  with  him.     Be  sure,  sir,  he's  gone." 

"  And  left  no  message,  no  addwess,  as  to  where  I  may  find 
him?" 

"  Not  a  word,  that  I  can  hear  of." 

"  Ba  Gawd  ! " 

The  man  who  had  called  forth  this  impassioned  speech  was 
at  that  moment  upon  the  deck  of  the  steamer,  fast  cleaving  her 
track  towards  the  ocean.  He  was  standing  by  the  after-guards, 
looking  back  upon  the  lights  of  Newport,  that  struggled  against 
the  twilight. 

His  eyes  had  become  fixed  on  one  that  glimmered  high  up  on 
the  summit  of  the  hill,  and  which  he  knew  to  proceed  from  a 
window  in  the  southern  end  of  the  Ocean  House. 

He  had  little  thought  of  the  free  use  that  was  just  then  being 
made  of  his  name  in  that  swarming  hive  of  beauty  and  fashion — 
else  he  might  have  repented  the  unceremonious  haste  of  his  de- 
parture. 


90  The  Child  Wife. 


Nor  was  he  thinking  of  that  which  was  carrying  him  away.  His 
regrets  were  of  a  more  tender  kind  :  for  he  had  such.  Regrets 
that  even  his  ardour  in  the  sacred  cause  of  Liberty  did  not  prevent 
him  from  feeling. 

Roseveldt,  standing  by  his  side,  and  observing  the  shadow  on 
his  fa«c,  easily  divined  its  character. 

'•  Come,  Maynard  !  "  said  he,  in  a  tone  of  banter,  "  I  hope  you 
won't  blame  me  for  bringing  you  with  me.  I  see  that  you've 
left  something  behind  you  ! " 

"  Left  something  behind  me  I  "  returned  Maynard,  in  astonish- 
ment, though  half-conscious  of  what  was  meant. 

"Of  course  you  have,"  jocularly  rejoined  the  Count.  "Where 
did  you  ever  stay  six  days  without  leaving  a  sweetheart  behind 
you  ?     It's  true,  you  scapegrace  !  " 

"  You  wrong  me,  Count.     I  assure  you  I  have  none " 

"  Well,  well,"  interrupted  the  revolutionist,  "  even  if  you  have, 
banish  the  remembrance,  and  be  a  man  !  Let  your  sword  now 
be  your  sweetheart.  Think  of  the  splendid  prospect  befoFe  you, 
The  moment  your  foot  touches  European  soil,  you  are  to  take 
command  of  the  whole  student  army.  The  Directory  have  so 
decided.  Fine  fellows,  I  assure  you,  these  German  students  : 
true  sons  of  Liberty — d  la  Schiller \  if  you  like.  You  may  do  what 
you  please  with  them,  so  long  as  you  lead  them  against  despotism. 
I  only  wish  I  had  your  opportunity." 

As  he  listened  to  these  stirring  words,  Maynard's  eyes  were 
gradually  turned  away  from  Newport — his  thoughts  from  Julia 
Girdwood. 

"  It  may  be  all  for  the  best,"  reflected  he,  as  he  gazed  down 
upon  the  phosphoric  track.  "  Even  could  I  have  won  her,  which 
is  doubtful,  she's  not  the  sort  for  a  wife;  and  that's  what  I'm 
now  wanting.  Certain,  I  shall  never  see  her  again.  Perhaps  the 
old  adage  will  still  prove  true,"  he  continued,  as  if  the  situation 
had  suggested  it :  "  '  Good  fish  in  the  sea  as  ever  were  caught.' 
Scintillations  ahead,  yet  unseen,  brilliant  as  those  we  are  leaving 
behind  us  I " 


CHAPTER   XVII. 

"  THE    COWARD  !  n 

The  steamer  that  carried  Captain  Maynard  and  his  fortunes  out 
of  the  Narragansett  Bay,  had  not  rounded  Point  Judith  before  his 
name  in  the  mouths  of  many  became  a  scorned  word.  The  gross 
insult  he  had  put  upon  the  English  stranger  had  been  witnessed 
by  a  score  of  gentlemen,  and  extensively  canvassed  by  all  who 
had  heard  of  it.  Of  course  there  would  be  a  "  call  out,"  and 
some  shooting.  Nothing  less  could  be  expected  after  such  an 
affront. 

It  was  a  surprise,  when  the  discovery  came,  that  the  in  suiter 
had  stolen  off;  for  this  was  the  interpretation  put  upon  it. 

To  many  it  was  a  chagrin.  Not  much  was  known  of  Captain 
Maynard,  beyond  that  public  repute  the  newspapers  had  given  to 
his  name,  in  connection  with  the  Mexican  war. 

This,  however,  proved  him  to  have  carried  a  commission  in 
the  American  army  ;  and  as  it  soon  became  understood  that  his 
adversary  was  an  officer  in  that  of  England,  it  was  but  natural 
there  should  be  some  national  feeling  called  forth  by  the  arYair. 

"  After  all,"  said  they,  "  Maynard  is  not  an  American  !  " 

It  was  some  palliation  of  his  supposed  poltroonery  that  he  had 
stayed  all  day  at  the  hotel,  and  that  his  adversary  had  not  sent 
the  challenge  till  after  he  was  gone. 

But  the  explanation  of  this  appeared  satisfactory  enough ;  and 
Swinton  had  not  been  slow  in  making  it  known.  Notwithstand- 
ing some  shame  to  himself,  he  had  taken  pains  to  give  it  a 
thorough  circulation  ;  supposing  that  no  one  knew  aught  of  the 
communication  he  had  received  from  Roseveldt. 

And  as  no  one  did  appear  to  know  of  it,  the  universal  verdict 
was,  that  the  hero  of  C ,  as  some  of  the  newspapers  pro- 
nounced him,  had  fled  from  a  field  where  fighting  honours  might 
be  less  ostentatiously  obtained. 


92  The  Child  Wife. 


There  were  many,  however,  who  did  not  attribute  his  departure 
to  cowardice,  and  who  believed  or  suspected  that  there  must  have 
been  some  other  motive — though  they  could  not  conceive  what. 

It  was  altogether  an  inexplicable  affair ;  and  had  he  left  New- 
port in  the  morning,  instead  of  the  evening,  he  would  have 
been  called  by  much  harder  names  than  those  thr*t  were  being 
bestowed  upon  him.  His  stay  at  the  hotel  for  what  might  be 
considered  a  reasonable  time,  in  part  protected  him  from  vituper- 
ation. 

Still  had  he  left  the  field  to  Mr.  S win  ton,  who  was  elevated 
into  a  sort  of  half-hero  by  his  adversary's  disgraceful  retreat. 

The  lord  incognito  carried  his  honours  meekly  as  might  be. 
He  was  not  without  apprehension  that  Maynard  might  return,  or 
be  met  again  in  some  other  corner  of  the  world — in  either  case  to 
call  him  to  account  for  any  triumphant  swaggering.  Of  this  he 
made  only  a  modest  display,  answering  when  questioned  : 

"  Confound  the  fellaw !  He's  given  me  the  slip,  and  I  don't 
knaw  where  to  find  him  !     It's  a  demmed  baw  ! " 

The  story,  as  thus  told,  soon  circulated  through  the  hotel,  and 
of  course  reached  that  part  of  it  occupied  by  the  Girdwood 
family.  Julia  had  been  among  the  first  who  knew  of  Maynard's 
departure — having  herself  been  an  astonished  eye-witness  of  it. 

Mrs.  Girdwood,  only  too  glad  to  hear  he  had  gone,  cared  but 
little  about  the  cause.  Enough  to  know  that  her  daughter  was 
safe  from  his  solicitations. 

Far  different  were  the  reflections  of  this  daughter.      It  was 

only  now  that  she  began  to  feel  that  secret  longing  to  possess  the 

thing  that  is  not  to  be  obtained.     An  eagle  had  stooped  at  her 

feet — as  she  thought,  submitting  itself  to  be  caressed  by  her.     It 

as  only  for  a  moment.     She  had  withheld  her  hand ;  and  now 

e  proud  bird  had  soared  resentfully  away,  never  more  to  return 

her  taming  ! 

She  listened  to  the  talk  of  Maynard's  cowardice  without  giving 
•edence  to  it.     She  knew  there  must  be  some  other  cause  for 

at  abrupt  departure ;  and  she  treated  the  slander  with  disdain- 

1  silence. 

For  all  this,  she  coaid  not  help  feeling  something  like  anger 
toward  him,  mingled  with  her  own  chagrin. 


"The  Coward!"  93 

Gone  without  speaking  to  her — without  any  response  to  that 
humiliating  confession  she  had  made  to  him  before  leaving  the 
ball-room  1  On  her  knees  to  him,  and  not  one  word  of  acknow- 
ledgment ! 

Clearly  he  cared  not  for  her. 

The  twilight  had  deepened  down  as  she  returned  into  the 
balcony,  and  took  her  stand  there,  with  eyes  bent  upon  the  bay. 
Silent  and  alone,  she  saw  the  signal-light  of  the  steamer  moving 
like  an  ignis  faiims  along  the  empurpled  bosom  of  the  water — at 
length  suddenly  disappearing  behind  the  battlements  of  the  Fort. 

"  He  is  gone  !  "  she  murmured  to  herself,  heaving  a  deep  sigh. 
"  Perhaps  never  more  to  be  met  by  me.  Oh,  I  must  try  to  for- 
get him  I " 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

DOWN   WITH    THE    DESPOTS  ! 

Time  was — and  that  not  "  long,  long  ago  " — when  the  arrival  of 
a  European  steamer  at  New  York  was  an  event,  as  was  also  the 
departure.  There  were  only  "  Cunarders  "  that  came  and  went 
once  a  fortnight ;  at  a  later  period  making  the  trip  hebdoma- 
dally. 

Any  one  who  has  crossed  the  Atlantic  by  the  Cunard  steamers 
need  not  be  told  that,  in  New  York,  their  point  of  landing  and 
leaving  is  upon  the  Jersey  shore. 

In  the  days  when  such  things  were  "  sensations,"  a  crowd  used 
to  collect  a;  the  Cunard  wharf,  attracted  thither  by  the  presence 
of  the  vast  ieviathan. 

Now  and  then  were  occasions  when  the  motive  was  different, 
or  rather  the  attraction — when,  instead  of  the  steamer,  it  was 
some  distinguished  individual  aboard  of  her:  prince,  patriot, 
singer,  or  courtezan.  Gay,  unreflecting  Gotham  stays  not  to 
make  distinction,  honouring  all  kinds  of  notoriety  alike ;  or  at  all 
events  giving  them  an  equal  distribution  of  its  curiosity. 

One  of  these  occasions  was  peculiar.  It  was  a  departure ;  the 
boat  being  the  Cambria,  one  of  the  slowest,  at  the  same  time  most 
comfortable,  steamers  on  the  "  line." 

She  has  been  long  since  withdrawn  from  it ;  her  keel,  if  I  mis- 
take not,  now  ploughing  the  more  tranquil  waters  of  the  Indian 
Ocean. 

And  her  captain,  the  brave,  amiable  Shannon  I  He,  too,  has 
been  transferred  to  another  service,  where  the  cares  of  steam 
navigation  and  the  storms  of  the  Atlantic  shall  vex  him  no  more. 

He  is  not  forgotten.  Reading  these  words,  many  hearts  will 
be  stirred  up  to  remember  him— true  hearts — still  beating  in  New 
York,  still  holding  in  record  that  crowd  on  the  Jersey  shore 
alongside  the  departing  steamer. 


Down  with  the  Despots  I  95 

Though  assembled  upon  American  soil,  but  few  of  the  in- 
dividuals composing  it  were  American.  The  physiognomy  was 
European,  chiefly  of  the  Teutonic  type,  though  with  an  inter- 
mingling of  the  Latinic.  Alongside  the  North  German,  with 
light-coloured  skin  and  huge  tawny  moustache,  stood  his  darker 
cousin  of  the  Danube ;  and  beside  both  the  still  swarthier  son  of 
Italy,  with  gleaming  dark  eyes,  and  thick  chevelure  of  shining 
black.  Here  could  be  noted,  too,  a  large  admixture  of  French- 
men, some  of  them  stiU  wearing  the  blouse  brought  over  from 
their  native  land ;  most  of  them  of  that  brave  ouvrier  class,  who 
but  the  year  before,  and  two  years  after,  might  have  been  seen 
resolutely  defending  the  barricades  of  Paris. 

Only  here  and  there  could  be  distinguished  an  American  face, 
or  a  word  spoken  in  the  English  language — the  speaker  being 
only  a  spectator  who  had  chanced  upon  the  spot. 

The  main  body  of  the  assemblage  was  composed  of  other 
elements — men  who  had  come  there  out  of  motives  quite  apart 
from  mere  curiosity.  There  were  women,  too — young  girls  with 
flaxen  hair  and  deep  blue  eyes,  recalling  their  native  Rhineland, 
with  others  of  darker  skin,  but  equally  pretty  faces,  from  the 
country  of  Corinne. 

Most  of  the  cabin-passengers — there  are  no  others  in  a 
Cunarder— had  ascended  to  the  upper  deck,  as  is  usual  at  the 
departure  of  a  steamer.  It  was  but  a  natural  desire  of  all  to 
witness  the  withdrawal  of  the  stage-plank — the  severance  of  that 
last  link  binding  them  to  a  land  they  were  leaving  with  varied 
emotions. 

Despite  their  private  thoughts,  whether  of  joy  or  sorrow,  they 
could  not  help  scanning  with  curiosity  that  sea  of  faces  spread 
out  before  them  upon  the  wharf. 

Standing  in  family  parties  over  the  deck,  or  in  rows  leaning 
against  the  rail,  they  interrogated  one  another  as  to  the  cause  of 
the  grand  gathering,  as  also  the  people  who  composed  it. 

It  was  evident  to  all  that  the  crowd  was  not  American  ; 
equally  so,  that  not  any  of  them  were  about  to  embark  upon 
steamer.     There  was   no   appearance    of  baggage,   though 
might  have  been  aboard.     But  most  of  them  were  of  a  cla 
likely  to  be  carried  by  a  Cunarder.     Besides,  there  were  o 


96  The  Child  Wife. 


of  leave-taking — no  embracing  or  hand-shaking,  such  as  may  be 
seen  when  friends  are  about  to  be  separated  by  the  sea.  For  this 
they  were  on  the  wrong  side  of  the  Atlantic. 

They  stood  in  groups,  close  touching ;  the  men  smoking  cigars, 
many  of  them  grand  meerschaum  pipes,  talking  gravely  to  one 
another,  or  more  jocosely  to  the  girls — a  crowd  earnest,  yet 
cheerful. 

It  was  plain,  too,  the  steamer  was  not  their  attraction.  Most 
of  them  faced  from  her,  casting  interrogative  glances  along  the 
wharf,  as  if  looking  for  something  expected  to  appear  to  them  in 
this  direction. 

"  Who  are  they  ? "  was  the  question  passed  round  among  the 
passengers. 

A  gentleman  who  appeared  specially  informed— there  is  always 
one  such  in  an  assemblage — vouchsafed  the  desired  information. 

"  They're  the  refugees,"  he  said.  "  French,  Germans,  Poles, 
and  what  not,  driven  over  here  by  the  late  revolutions  in  Europe/' 

"Are  they  going  back  again?"  inquired  one  who  wanted 
further  information. 

"Some  of  them  are,  I  believe,"  answered  the  first  speaker. 
"Though  not  by  the  steamer,"  he  added.  "The  poor  devils 
can't  afford  that." 

"  Then  why  are  they  here  ?  " 

"They  have  some  leaders  who  are  going.  One  of  them,  a 
man  named  Maynard,  who  made  some  figure  in  the  late  Mexican 
war." 

"  Oh,  Captain  Maynard !  But  he's  not  one  of  them !  He 
isn't  a  foreigner" 

"  No.  But  the  men  he  commanded  in  Mexico  were,  most  of 
them  !     That's  why  they  have  chosen  him  for  their  leader." 

"  Captain  Maynard  must  be  a  fool,"  interposed  a  third  speaker. 
"  The  rising  reported  in  Europe  has  no  chance  of  success.  He'll 
only  get  his  neck  into  a  halter.  Are  there  any  Americans  taking 
part  in  the  movement  ?  " 

He  of  supposed  special  information  guessed  not 

He  guessed  correctly,  though  it  was  a  truth  not  over  creditable 
to  his  country — which,  by  his  speech,  could  be  no  other  than  the 
"  States." 


Down  with  the  Despots!  97 

At  that  crisis,  when  filibustering  might  have  been  of  some  ser- 
vice to  the  cause  of  European  freedom,  the  only  American  who 
volunteered  for  it  was  Maynard ;  and  he  was  an  American- 
Irishman  I  Still,  to  this  great  country — to  a  residence  among  its 
people,  and  a  study  of  its  free  institutions — was  he  indebted  for 
the  inspiration  that  had  made  him  what  he  was — a  lover  of 
Liberty. 

Among  those  listening  to  the  conversation  was  a  group  of  three 
individuals :  a  man  of  more  than  fifty  years  of  age,  a  girl  of  less 
than  fourteen,  and  a  woman  whose  summers  and  winters  might 
number  about  midway  between. 

The  man  was  tall,  with  an  aspect  of  the  kind  usually  termed 
aristocratic.  It  was  not  stern ;  but  of  that  mild  type  verging  upon 
the  venerable — an  expression  strengthened  by  hair  nearly  white, 
seen  under  the  selvedge  of  his  travelling-cap. 

The  girl  was  an  interesting  creature.  She  was  still  but  a  mere 
child,  and  wearing  the  dress  of  one — a  gown  sleeveless,  and  with 
short  skirt — the  hair  hanging  loose  over  her  shoulders. 

But  under  the  skirt  were  limbs  of  a  tournure  that  told  of 
approaching  puberty  ;  while  her  profuse  locks,  precious  on  account 
of  their  rich  colour,  appeared  to  call  for  pins  and  a  comb. 

Despite  che  difficulty  of  comparing  the  features  of  a  man  of 
fifty  and  a  child  of  fourteen,  there  was  enough  resemblance  be- 
tween these  two  to  give  the  idea  of  father  and  daughter.  It  was 
confirmed  by  the  relative  position  in  which  they  stood ;  he  hold- 
ing her  paternally  by  the  hand. 

Between  them  and  the  woman  the  relationship  was  of  quite  a 
different  nature,  and  needed  only  a  glance  to  make  it  known 
The  buff  complexion  of  the  latter,  with  the  "  white  turban  *  upon 
her  head,  told  her  to  be  a  servant. 

She  stood  a  little  behind  them. 

The  man  alone  appeared  to  heed  what  was  being  said ;  the 
girl  and  servant  were  more  interested  in  the  movements  of  the 
people  upon  the  wharf. 

The  brief  conversation  ended,  he  approached  the  original 
speaker  with  the  half-whispered  question  : 

"You  say  there  are  no  Americans  in  this  movement  la 
Captain  Maynard  not  one?  " 

B 


98  The  Child  Wife. 


"  I  guess  not,"  was  the  reply.  "  He's  been  in  the  American 
array;  but  I've  heard  say  he's  Irish.  Nothing  against  him  for 
that" 

"  Of  course  not,"  answered  the  aristocratic-looking  gentleman. 
*  I  merely  asked  out  of  curiosity." 

It  must  have  been  a  strong  curiosity  that  caused  him,  after 
retiring  a  little,  to  take  out  his  note-book,  and  enter  in  it  a  memo- 
randum, evidently  referring  to  the  revolutionary  leader. 

Furthermore,  the  information  thus  received  appeared  to  have 
increased  his  interest  in  the  crowd  below. 

Dropping  the  hand  of  his  daughter,  and  pressing  forward  to  the 
rail,  he  watched  its  evolutions  with  eagerness. 

By  this  time  the  assemblage  had  warmed  into  a  more  feverish 
state  of  excitement.  Men  were  talking  in  a  louder  strain,  with 
more  rapid  gesticulations — some  pulling  out  their  watches,  and 
looking  impatiently  at  the  time.  It  was  close  upon  twelve  o'clock 
— the  hour  of  the  steamer's  starting.  She  had  already  sounded 
the  signal  to  get  aboard. 

All  at  once  the  loud  talk  ceased,  the  gesticulation  was  sus- 
pended, and  the  crowd  stood  silent,  or  spoke  only  in  whispers.  A 
spark  of  intelligence  had  drifted  mysteriously  amongst  them. 

It  was  explained  by  a  shout  heard  afar  off,  on  the  outer  edge 
of  the  assemblage. 

"  He  is  coming !  " 

The  shout  was  taken  up  in  a  hundred  repetitions,  and  carried 
on  to  the  centre  of  the  mass,  and  still  on  to  the  steamer. 

It  was  succeeded  by  a  grand  huzza,  and  the  cries  :  "  Nieder 
wit  dem  tyrannen  I      "A  das  les  tyra?its  I    Vive  la  Republique  /  " 

Who  was  coming  ?  Whose  advent  had  drawn  forth  that  heart- 
inspiring  hail — had  elicited  those  sentiments  of  patriotism  simul- 
taneously spoken  in  almost  every  language  of  Europe  ? 

A  carriage  came  forward  upon  the  wharf.  It  was  only  a  common 
street  hack  that  had  crossed  in  the  ferryboat  But  men  gave  way 
for  it  with  as  much  alacrity  as  if  it  had  been  a  grand  gilded 
chariot  carrying  a  king  ! 

And  those  men  far  more.  Ten,  twenty  times  quicker,  and  a 
thousand  times  more  cheerfully,  did  they  spring  out  of  its  way. 
Had  there  been  a  king  inside  it,  there  would  have  been  none 


Down  with  the  Despots!  99 

to  cry,  "God  bless  His  Majesty!"  and  few  to  have  said,  "God 
help  him ! " 

A  king  in  that  carriage  would  have  stood  but  slight  chance  of 
reaching  the  steamer  in  safety. 

There  were  two  inside  it — a  man  of  nigh  thirty,  and  one  of 
maturer  age.     They  were  Maynard  and  Roseveldt 

It  was  upon  the  former  all  eyes  were  fixed,  towards  whom  all 
hearts  were  inclining.  It  was  his  approach  had  called  forth  that 
cry  :  M  He  is  coming  !  " 

And  now  that  he  had  come,  a  shout  was  sent  from  the  Jersey 
shore,  that  echoed  along  the  hills  of  Hoboken,  and  was  heard  in 
the  streets  of  the  great  Empire  City. 

Why  this  wonderful  enthusiasm  for  one  who  belonged  neither 
to  their  race  nor  their  country  ?  On  the  contrary,  he  was  sprung 
from  a  people  to  them  banefully  hostile  ! 

It  had  not  much  to  do  with  the  man.  Only  that  he  was  the 
representative  of  a  principle — a  cause  for  which  most  of  them  had 
fought  and  bled,  and  many  intended  fighting,  and,  if  need  be, 
bleeding  again.  He  was  their  chosen  chief,  advancing  toward 
the  van,  flinging  himself  forward  into  the  post  of  peril — for  man's 
and  liberty's  sake,  risking  the  chain  and  the  halter.  For  this  was 
he  the  recipient  of  such  honours. 

The  carriage,  slowly  working  its  way  through  the  thick  crowd, 
was  almost  lifted  from  its  wheels.  In  their  enthusiastic  excite- 
ment those  who  surrounded  it  looked  as  if  they  would  have  raised 
it  on  their  shoulders  and  carried  it,  horses  included,  up  the 
staging  of  the  steamer. 

They  did  this  much  for  Maynard.  Strong-bearded  men  threw 
their  arms  around  him,  kissing  him  as  if  he  had  been  a  beautiful 
girl,  while  beautiful  girls  clasped  him  by  the  hand,  or  with  their 
kerchiefs  waved  him  an  affectionate  farewell. 

A  colossus,  lifting  him  from  his  feet,  transported  him  to  the  deck 
of  the  steamer,  amidst  the  cheers  of  the  assembled  multitude. 

And  amidst  its  cheers,  still  continued,  the  steamer  swung  out 
from  the  wharf. 

"It  is  worth  while  to  be  true  to  the  people,"  said  Maynard,  hi« 
breast  glowing  with  proud  triumph,  as  he  heard  bis  name  rise 
above  the  parting  hurrah. 


ioo  The  Child  Wife. 


He  repeated  the  words  as  the  boat  passed  the  Battery,  and  he 
saw  the  German  Artillery  Corps — those  brave  scientific  soldiers 
who  had  done  so  much  for  their  adopted  land — drawn  up  on  the 
esplanade  of  Castle  Garden. 

And  once  again,  as  he  listened  to  their  farewell  salvo,  drowning 
the  distant  cheers  sent  after  him  across  the  widening  water. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

BLANCHE   AND   SABINA. 

On  parting  from  the  pier  most  of  the  passengers  forsook  the 
upper  deck,  and  went  scattering  to  their  state-rooms. 

A  few  remained  lingering  above ;  among  them  the  gentleman 
to  whom  belonged  the  golden-haired  girl,  and  the  servant  with 
skin  of  kindred  colour. 

He  did  not  stay,  as  one  who  takes  a  leaving  look  at  his  native 
land.  It  was  evidently  not  his.  In  his  own  features,  and  those 
of  the  child  held  in  his  hand,  there  was  an  unmistakable  expres- 
sion of  "  Englishism,"  as  seen  in  its  nobler  type. 

The  coloured  domestic,  more  like  America,  was  still  not  of  the 
"  States."  Smaller  and  more  delicate  features,  with  a  peculiar 
sparkle  of  the  eye,  told  of  a  West  Indian  origin — a  negress  for 
her  mother,  with  a  white  man,  perhaps  Frenchman  or  Spaniard, 
for  her  father. 

Any  doubts  about  the  gentleman's  nationality  would  have  been 
dispelled  by  listening  to  a  brief  dialogue  that  soon  after  occurred 
between  him  and  a  fourth  personage  who  appeared  upon  the 
scene. 

This  last  was  a  young  fellow  in  dark  coat  and  trousers,  the  coat 
having  flap-pockets  outside.  The  style  betokened  him  a  servant 
— made  further  manifest  by  the  black  leathern  cockade  upon  his 
hat. 

He  had  just  come  from  below. 

Stepping  up  to  the  gentleman,  and  giving  the  unmistakable 
salute,  he  pronounced  his  master's  name : 

"Sir  George!" 

"  What  is  it,  Freeman  ?  " 

"They  are  stowing  the  luggage  between  decks,  Sir  George; 
and  want  to  know  what  pieces  your  excellency  wishes  to  be  kept 
for  the  state-rooms.     I've  put  aside  the  black  bag  and  the  yellow 


102  The  Child  Wife. 


portmanteau,  and  the  large  one  with  Miss  Blanche's  things.  The 
bullock  trunk  ?     Ts  it  to  go  below,  Sir  George  ?" 

"  Why,  yes-~W). .  Stay  !  What  a  bother !  I  must  go  down 
myself.  SabinaJ  keep  close  by  the  child.  Here,  Blanche  !  you 
can  sit  upon  this  cane  seat ;  and  Sabina  will  hold  the  umbrella 
over  you.     Don't  move  away  from  here  till  I  come  back." 

Sir  George's  assiduous  care  may  be  understood,  by  saying  that 
Blanche  was  his  daughter — his  only  child. 

Laying  hold  of  the  brass  baluster-rail,  and  Gliding  his  hand 
along  it,  he  descended  the  stair,  followed  by  Freeman. 

Blanche  sat  down  as  directed ;  the  mulatto  opening  a  light 
silk  umbrella  and  holding  it  over  her  head.  It  was  not  raining ; 
only  to  protect  her  from  the  sun. 

Looking  at  Blanche,  one  could  not  wonder  at  Sir  George  being 
so  particular.  She  was  a  thing  to  be  shielded.  Not  that  she 
appeared  of  delicate  health,  or  in  any  way  fragile.  On  the  con- 
trary, her  form  showed  strength  and  rotundity  unusual  for  a  girl 
of  thirteen.     She  was  but  little  over  it. 

Perhaps  it  was  her  complexion  he  was  thinking  o£  It  certainly 
appeared  too  precious  to  be  exposed  to  the  sun. 

And  yet  the  sun  had  somewhere  played  upon,  without  spoiling 
it  Rather  was  it  improved  by  the  slight  embrowning,  as  the 
bloom  enriches  the  skin  of  the  apricot.  He  seemed  to  have  left 
some  of  his  rays  amidst  the  tresses  of  her  hair,  causing  them  to 
shine  like  his  own  glorious  beams. 

She  remained  upon  the  seat  where  her  father  had  left  her.  The 
position  gave  her  a  fine  view  of  the  bay  and  its  beautiful  shores, 
of  Staten  Island  and  its  villas,  picturesquely  placed  amidst  groves 
of  emerald  green. 

But  she  saw,  without  observing  them.  The  ships,  too,  swept 
past  unobserved  by  her;  everything,  even  the  objects  immedi- 
ately around  her  upon  the  deck  of  the  steamer.  Her  eyes  only 
turned  toward  one  point — the  stairway — where  people  were  ascend- 
ing, and  where  her  father  had  gone  down. 

And  looking  that  way,  she  sat  silent,  though  not  abstracted. 
She  was  apparently  watching  for  some  one  to  come  up. 

"  Miss  Blanche,"  said  the  mulatto,  observing  this,  "  you  no 
need  look,  you  fader  not  back  for  long  time  yet     Doan  you 


Blanche  and  Sabina,  103 

^member  in  dat  VVes  Indy  steamer  how  much  trouble  dem  baggages 
be?     It  take  de  governor  great  while  sort  'em." 

"  I'm  not  looking  for  father,"  responded  the  child,  still  keeping 
her  eyes  sternv,ard. 

"  Who  den  ?     You  ben  tinkin'  'bout  somebody." 

"Yes,  Sabby,  I'm  thinking  of  him.  I  want  to  see  how  ho 
looks  when  near.     Surely  he  will  come  up  here?" 

"  Him  !  Who  you  'peak'  'bout,  Miss  Blanche  ?  De  cap'in  ob 
the  ship?" 

"  Captain  of  the  ship  !  Oh,  no,  no  !  That's  the  captain  ap 
there.  Papa  told  me  so.  Who  cares  to  look  at  an  old  fellow 
like  that?" 

While  speaking,  she  had  pointed  to  Skipper  Shannon,  seen 
pacing  upon  the  "  bridge." 

"  Den  who  you  mean  ?  "  asked  the  perplexed  Sabina. 

"  Oh,  Sabby  !  sure  you  might  know." 

"'Deed  Sabby  doan  know." 

"Well,  that  gentleman  the  people  cheered  so.  A  man  told 
papa  they  were  all  there  to  take  leave  of  him.  Didn't  they  take 
leave  of  him  in  an  odd  way?  Why,  the  men  in  big  beards 
actually  kissed  him.  I  saw  them  kiss  him.  And  the  young  girls  I 
you  saw  what  they  did,  Sabby.  Those  girls  appear  to  be  very 
forward." 

"  Dey  war'  nothin'  but  trash — dem  white  gals." 

"  But  the  gentleman  ?  I  wonder  who  he  is  ?  Do  you  think 
it's  a  prince  ?  " 

The  interrogatory  was  suggested  by  a  remembrance.  Only 
once  in  her  life  before  had  the  child  witnessed  a  similar  scene. 
Looking  out  of  a  window  in  London,  she  had  been  spectator  to 
the  passage  of  a  prince.  She  had  heard  the  hurrahs,  and  seen 
the  waving  of  hats  and  handkerchiefs.  Alike,  though  with  per- 
haps a  little  less  passion — less  true  enthusiasm.  Since  then, 
living  a  tranquil  life  in  one  of  the  Lesser  Antilles— of  which  her 
father  was  governor — she  had  seen  little  of  crowds,  and  less  ot 
such  excited  assemblages  as  that  just  left  behind.  It  was  not 
strange  she  should  recall  the  procession  of  the  prince. 

And  yet  how  diametrically  opposite  were  the  sentiments  that 
actuated  the  two  scenes  of  which  she  had  been  spectator !     So 


104  The  Child   Wife. 


much  that  even  the  West  Indian  woman — the  child  of  a  slave — 
knew  the  difference. 

"Prince  1"  responded  Sabina,  with  a  disdainful  toss  of  the 
head,  that  proclaimed  her  a  loyal  "  Badian."  "  Prince  in  dis 
'Merica  country !  Dere's  no  sich  ting.  Dat  fella  dey  make  go 
much  muss  'bout,  he  only  a  'publican." 

"  A  publican  ?  " 

"Yes,  missy.  You  dem  hear  shout,  *  Vive  de  publique  !'  Dey 
all  'publicans  in  dis  Unite  States." 

The  governor's  daughter  was  nonplussed ;  she  knew  what 
publicans  were.  She  had  lived  in  London  where  there  is  at  least 
one  in  every  street— inhabiting  its  most  conspicuous  house.  But 
a  whole  nation  of  them  !  " 

"  All  publicans  ! "  she  exclaimed,  in  surprise.  "  Come,  Sabby, 
you're  telling  me  a  story." 

"  'Deed  no,  Miss  Blanche.  Sabby  tell  you  de  truth.  True  as 
gospels,  ebbery  one  of  dese  'Merican  people  are  'publicans." 

"Who  drinks  it  then?" 

"  Drink  what  ?  " 

"  Why,  what  they  sell  1  The  wine,  and  the  beer,  and  the  gin. 
In  London  they  don't  have  anything  else — the  publicans  don't." 

"  Oh !  now  I  comprehend  you,  missy.  I  see  you  no  me 
unerstan',  chile.  I  no  mean  dat  sort  as  sell  de  drink.  Totally 
different  aldegidder.  Dere  am  republicans  as  doan  believe  in 
kings  and  kweens— not  even  in  our  good  Victorie.  Dey  believe 
only  in  de  common  people  dat's  bad  and  wicked." 

"  Stuff,  Sabby  !  I'm  sure  you  must  be  mistaken.  That  young 
man  isn't  wicked.  At  least  he  doesn't  look  so  ;  and  they  believe 
in  him.  You  saw  how  they  all  honoured  him ;  and  though  it 
does  seem  bold  for  those  girls  to  have  kissed  him,  I  think  I  would 
have  done  so  myself.  He  looked  so  proud,  so  beautiful,  so  good  ! 
He's  ten  times  prettier  than  the  prince  I  saw  in  London.  That 
he  is  ! " 

"  Hush  up,  chile  !  Doan  let  your  fader,  de  royal  gov'nor,  hear 
you  talk  dat  way.  He  boun'  be  angry.  I  know  he  doan  favour 
dem  'publicans,  and  woan  like  you  praise  'em.  He  hate  'em  like 
pisen  snake." 

Blanche  made  no  rejoinder.     She  had  not  even  listened  to  the 


Blanche  and  Sdbina.  105 

Her  ears  had  become  closed  to  the  speeches  of 
Sabina  at  sight  of  a  man  who  was  at  that  moment  ascending  the 
stair. 

It  was  he  about  whom  they  had  been  conversing. 

Once  upon  the  deck  he  took  his  stand  close  to  the  spot  where 
the  child  was  seated,  looking  back  up  the  bay. 

As  his  face  was  slightly  turned  from  her,  she  had  a  fair  chance 
v^f  scrutinizing  him,  without  being  detected. 

And  she  made  this  scrutiny  with  the  ardent  curiosity  of  a 
child. 

He  was  not  alone.  By  his  side  was  the  man  she  had  seen 
along  with  him  in  the  carriage. 

But  she  had  no  eyes  for  the  middle-aged  gentleman  with  huge 
grizzly  moustachios.  Only  for  him,  whose  hand  those  girls  had 
been  so  eager  to  clasp  and  kiss. 

And  she  sat  scanning  him,  with  strange,  wondering  eyes,  as  the 
Zenaida  dove  looks  upon  the  shining  constrictor.  Scanning  him 
from  head  to  foot,  heedless  of  the  speeches  of  Sabina,  whose  West 
Indian  experience  must  have  made  her  acquainted  with  the 
fascination  of  the  serpent. 

It  was  but  the  wonder  of  a  child  for  something  that  has  crossed 
its  track — something  new  and  abnormal — grander  than  a  toy — 
brighter,  even,  than  a  fancy  called  up  by  the  tales  of  Aladdin. 


CHAPTER  XX. 
••the  wondering  eyes." 

Once  more  Maynard  stood  upon  the  deck  of  a  sea-going  vessel, 
his  eyes  bent  upon  the  white  seethy  track  lengthening  out  behind 
him. 

In  its  sea-view  the  Empire  City  is  unfortunate,  presenting  scarce 
a  point  worthy  of  being  remembered.  There  is  no  salient  feature 
like  the  great  dome  of  St.  Paul's,  in  London,  the  Arc  de  Triomphe. 
of  Paris,  or  even  the  St.  Charles  Hotel,  as  you  sweep  round  the 
English  Turn,  in  sight  of  New  Orleans.  In  approaching  New 
York  City,  your  eye  rests  on  two  or  three  sharp  spires,  more  be 
fitting  the  architecture  of  a  village  church,  and  a  mean-looking 
cupola,  that  may  be  the  roof  either  of  a  circus  or  gasworks  !  The 
most  striking  object  is  the  curious  circular  Castle  with  its  garden 
behind  it ;  but  this  requires  a  distant  view  to  hide  its  neglected 
condition  ;  and,  lying  low,  it  becomes  only  prominent  when  too 
near  to  stand  scrutiny. 

In  the  improvement  of  this  point,  New  York  has  a  splendid 
opportunity  to  redeem  the  shabbiness  of  its  seaward  aspect.  It  is 
still  city  property,  I  believe ;  and  if  it  had  ffaussman,  instead  of 
Hoffman,  for  its  mayor,  the  city  of  Manhattan  would  soon  present 
to  its  bay  a  front  worthy  of  this  noble  estuary. 

To  return  from  our  digression  upon  themes  civic,  economic, 
and  architectural,  to  the  Cambria  steamer  fast  forging  on  toward 
the  ocean. 

The  revolutionary  leader  had  no  such  thoughts  as  he  stood 
upon  her  deck,  taking  the  last  look  at  the  city  of  New  York.  His 
reflections  were  different;  one  of  them  being,  whether  it  was 
indeed  to  be  his  last  J 

He  was  leaving  a  land  he  had  long  lived  in,  and  loved:  its 
people  and  its  institutions.     He  was  proceeding  upon  an  enter- 

1*6 


M  The    Wondering  Eyes?  107 

prise  of  great  peril ;  not  as  the  legalized  soldier,  who  has  no  fear 
before  him  save  death  on  the  battle-field,  or  a  period  of  imprison- 
ment ;  but  as  a  revolutionist  and  rebel,  who,  if  defeated,  need 
expect  no  mercy — only  a  halter  and  a  tombless  grave. 

It  was  at  a  time,  however,  when  the  word  rebel  was  synony- 
mous with  patriot ;  before  it  became  disgraced  by  that  great 
rebellion — the  first  in  all  history  sinful  and  without  just  cause — 
the  first  that  can  be  called  inglorious. 

Then  the  term  was  a  title  to  be  proud  of — the  thing  itself  a 
sacred  duty  ;  and  inspired  by  these  thoughts,  he  looked  before 
him  without  fear,  and  behind  with  less  regret. 

It  would  not  be  true  to  say,  that  he  was  altogether  indifferent 
to  the  scenes  receding  from  his  view.  Many  bonds  of  true  friend- 
ship had  been  broken  ;  many  hands  warmly  shaken,  perhaps 
never  to  be  grasped  again  ! 

And  there  was  one  severance,  where  a  still  tenderer  tie  had 
been  torn  asunder. 

But  the  spasm  had  passed  some  time  ago — more  keenly  felt 
by  him  on  the  deck  of  that  steamer  leaving  the  harbour  of 
Newport. 

A  week  had  elapsed  since  then — a  week  spent  amidst  exciting 
scenes  and  in  the  companionship  of  kindred  spirits — in  the  enrol- 
ling-room  surrounded  by  courageous  filibusters — in  the  Bairisch 
beer-saloons  with  exiled  republican  patriots — amidst  the  clinking 
of  glasses,  filled  out  of  long-necked  Rhine  wine  bottles,  and 
quaffed  to  the  songs  of  Schiller,  and  the.  dear  German  father- 
land. 

It  was  fortunate  for  Maynard  that  this  stormy  life  had  succeeded 
the  tranquillity  of  the  Newport  Hotel.  It  enabled  him  to  think 
less  about  Julia  Girdwood.  Still  was  she  in  his  mind,  as  the 
steamw  left  Staten  Island  in  her  wake,  and  was  clearing  her  way 
through  the  Narrows. 

But  before  Sandy  Hook  was  out  of  sight,  the  proud  girl  had 
gone  away  from  his  thoughts,  and  with  the  suddenness  of  thought 
itself ! 

This  quick  forgetfulness  calls  for  explanation. 

The  last  look  at  a  land,  where  a  sweetheart  has  been  left 
behind,  will  not  restore  the  sighing  heart  to  its  tranquillity.    It  was 


Io8  The  Child  Wtje. 


not  this  that  had  produced  such  an  abrupt  change  in  the  spirit  of 
the  lover. 

No  more  was  it  the  talk  of  Roseveldt,  standing  by  his  side,  and 
pouring  into  his  ear  those  revolutionary  ideas,  for  which  the  Count 
had  so  much  suffered. 

The  change  came  from  a  cause  altogether  different,  perhaps  the 
only  one  capable  of  effecting  such  a  transformation. 

"  Un  clavo  saca  otro  clavo?  say  the  Spaniards,  of  all  people  the 
most  knowing  in  proverbial  lore.  "  One  nail  drives  out  another." 
A  fair  face  can  only  be  forgotten  by  looking  upon  one  that  is 
fairer. 

Thus  came  relief  to  Captain  Maynard. 

Turning  to  go  below,  he  saw  a  face  so  wonderfully  fair,  so 
strange  withal,  that  almost  mechanically  he  stayed  his  intention, 
and  remained  lingering  on  the  deck. 

In  less  than  ten  minutes  after,  he  was  in  love  with  a  child! 

There  are  those  who  will  deem  this  an  improbability ;  perhaps 
pronounce  it  unnatural. 

Nevertheless  it  was  true ;  for  we  are  recording  an  actual  ex- 
perience. 

As  Maynard  faced  towards  the  few  passengers  that  remained 
upon  the  upper  deck,  most  of  them  with  eyes  fixed  upon  the  land 
they  were  leaving,  he  noticed  one  pair  that  were  turned  upon 
himself.  At  first  he  read  in  them  only  an  expression  of  simple 
curiosity ;  and  his  own  thought  was  the  same  as  he  returned  the 
glance. 

He  saw  a  child  with  grand  golden  hair — challenging  a  second 
look.  And  this  he  gave,  as  one  who  regards  something  pretty 
and  superior  of  its  kind. 

But  passing  from  the  hair  to  the  eyes,  he  beheld  in  them  a 
strange,  wondering  gaze,  like  that  given  by  the  gazelle  or  the 
fawn  of  the  fallow-deer,  to  the  saunterer  in  a  zoological  garden, 
who  has  tempted  it  to  the  edge  of  its  enclosure. 

Had  the  glance  been  only  transitory,  Maynard  might  have 
passed  on,  though  not  without  remembering  it. 

Eut  it  was  not.  The  child  continued  to  gaze  upon  him,  re- 
gardless of  all  else  around. 

And  so  on  till  a  imn  of  graceful   mien — gray-haired  and  of 


"  The   Wondering  Eyes."  109 

paternal  aspect — came  alongside,  caught  her  gently  by  the  hand, 
and  led  her  away,  with  the  intention  of  taking  her  below. 

On  reaching  the  head  of  the  stairway  she  glanced  back,  still 
with  that  same  wildering  look  ;  and  again,  as  the  bright  face  with 
its  golden  glories  sweeping  down  behind  it,  disappeared  below 
the  level  of  the  deck. 

"What's  the  matter  with  you,  Maynard?"  asked  the  Count, 
seeing  that  his  comrade  had  become  suddenly  thoughtful.  "  By 
the  way  you  stand  looking  after  that  little  sprout,  one  might  sup- 
pose her  to  be  your  own  !  " 

"  My  dear  Count,"  rejoined  Maynard,  in  an  earnest,  appealing 
tone,  "  I  beg  you  won't  jest  with  me — at  all  events,  don't  laugh, 
when  I  tell  you  how  near  you  have  hit  upon  my  wish." 

"What  wish?" 

"  That  she  were  my  own." 

"As  how?" 

"  As  my  wife." 

"Wife!  A  child  not  fourteen  years  of  age!  Cher capitaine / 
you  are  turning  Turk  !  Such  ideas  are  not  becoming  to  a  revolu- 
tionary leader.  Besides,  you  promised  to  have  no  other  sweet- 
heart than  your  sword  !  Ha — ha — ha  1  How  soon  you've 
forgotten  the  naiad  of  Newport !  " 

"  I  admit  it.  I'm  glad  I  have  been  able  to  do  so.  It  was 
altogether  different.  It  was  not  true  love,  but  only — never  mind 
what.  But  now  I  feel — don't  laugh  at  me,  Roseveldt  I  assure 
you  I  am  sincere.  That  child  has  impressed  me  with  a  feeling  I 
never  had  before.  Her  strange  look  has  done  it.  I  know  not 
why  or  wherefore  she  looked  so.  I  feel  as  if  she  had  sounded  the 
bottom  of  my  soul !  It  may  be  fate,  destiny — whatever  you  choose 
to  call  it — but  as  I  live,  Roseveldt,  I  have  a  presentiment — she 
will  yet  be  my  wife  1 " 

"  If  such  be  her  and  your  destiny,"  responded  Roseveldt, 
*' don't  suppose  I  shall  do  anything  to  obstruct  its  fulfilment 
She  appears  to  be  the  daughter  of  a  gentleman,  though  I  must 
confess  I  don't  much  like  his  looks.  He  reminds  me  of  the 
class  we  are  going  to  contend  against.  No  matter  for  that 
The  girl's  only  an  mfant ;  and  before  she  can  be  ready  to  marry 
you,  all   Europe   may    te    Republican,   and    you   a  President! 


no  The  Child  Wife, 


Now,  cher  capitaine  I  let  us  below,  else  the  steward  may  have 
our  fine  Havanas  stowed  away  under  hatches ;  and  then  such 
weeds  as  we'd  have  to  smoke  during  the  voyage ! n 

From  sentiment  to  cigars  was  an  abrupt  change. 

But  Maynard  was  no  romantic  dreamer  ;  and  complying  with 
his  fellow-traveller's  request,  he  descended  to  the  state-room  to 
look  after  the  disposal  of  their  portmanteaus. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

A     SHORT-LIVED     TRIUMPH. 

While  the  hero  of  C was  thus  starting  to  seek  fresh  fame  01 

a  foreign  snore,  he  came  very  near  having  his  escutcheon  6tained 
in  the  land  he  was  leaving  behind  him  ! 

At  the  time  that  his  name  was  a  shout  of  triumph  in  noisy  New 
York,  it  was  being  pronounced  in  the  quiet  circles  of  Newport 
with  an  accent  of  scorn. 

By  many  it  was  coupled  with  the  word  "  coward." 

Mr.  Swinton  enjoyed  his  day  of  jubilee. 

It  did  not  last  long;  though  long  enough  to  enable  this  ac- 
complished card-player  to  make  a  coup. 

From  the  repute  obtained  by  the  sham  challenge,  aided  by  the 
alliance  of  Louis  Lucas,  he  was  not  long  in  discovering  some  of 
those  pigeons  for  whose  especial  plucking  he  had  made  the  cross- 
ing of  the  Atlantic. 

They  were  not  so  well  feathered  as  he  had  expected  to  find 
them.  Still  did  he  obtain  enough  to  save  him  from  the  necessity 
of  taking  to  a  hack,  or  the  fair  Frances  to  a  mangle. 

For  the  cashiered  guardsman — now  transformed  into  a  swindler 
— it  promised  to  be  a  golden  time.  But  the  promise  was  too  bright 
to  be  of  long  continuance,  and  his  transient  glory  soon  became 
clouded  with  suspicion;  while  that  of  his  late  adversary  was 
released  from  the  stigma  that  for  a  time  had  attached  to  it. 

A  few  days  after  Maynard  had  taken  his  departure  from  New 
York,  it  became  known  why  he  had  left  so  abruptly.  The  New 
York  newspapers  contained  an  explanation  of  this.  He  had 
been  elected  to  the  leadership  of  what  was  by  them  termed  the 
"  German  expedition";  and  had  responded  to  the  call. 

Honourable  as  this  seemed  to  some,  it  did  not  quite  justify 
him  in  the  eyes  of  others,  acquainted  with  his  conduct  in  the 
affair  with  Swinton.    His  insult  to  the  Englishman  had  been  gross 


u2  The  Child  Wife. 


sn  the  extreme,  and  above  all  considerations  he  should  have 
stayed  to  give  him  satisfaction. 

But  the  papers  now  told  of  his  being  in  New  York.  Why  did 
Mr.  Swinton  not  follow  him  there  ?  This,  of  course,  was  but  a 
reflection  on  the  opposite  side,  and  both  now  appeared  far  from 
spotless. 

So  far  as  regarded  Maynard,  the  spots  were  at  length  removed ; 
and  before  he  had  passed  out  of  sight  of  Sandy  Hook,  his  reputa- 
tion as  a  "gentleman  and  man  of  honour"  was  completely- 
restored. 

An  explanation  is  required.     In  a  few  words  it  shall  be  given. 

Shortly  after  Maynard  had  left,  it  became  known  in  the  Ocean 
House  that  on  the  morning  after  the  ball,  and  at  an  early  hour 
a  strange  gentleman  arriving  by  the  New  York  boat  had  made  his 
way  to  Maynard's  room,  staying  with  him  throughout  the  day. 

Furthermore,  that  a  letter  had  been  sent  addressed  to  Mr.  Swin- 
ton, and  delivered  to  his  valet.  The  waiter  to  whom  it  had  been 
intrusted  was  the  authority  for  these  statements. 

What  could  that  letter  contain  ? 

Mr.  Lucas  should  know,  and  Mr.  Lucas  was  asked. 

But  he  did  not  know.  So  far  from  being  acquainted  with  the 
contents  of  the  letter  in  question,  he  was  not  even  aware  that  an 
epistle  had  been  sent. 

On  being  told  of  it,  he  felt  something  like  a  suspicion  of  being 
compromised,  and  at  once  determined  on  demanding  from  Swin- 
ton an  explanation. 

With  this  resolve  he  sought  the  Englishman  in  his  room. 

He  found  him  there,  and  with  some  surprise  discovered  him  in 
miliar  discourse  with  his  servant. 

"What's  this  I've  heard,  Mr.  Swinton?"  he  asked  upon  enter- 
ing. 

"  Aw — aw  ;  what,  my  deaw  Lucas  ?  " 

"  This  letter  they're  talking  about" 

"  Lettaw — lettaw  1  I  confess  supweme  ignowance  of  what  you 
'JJaean,  my  deaw  Lucas." 

"  Oh,  nonsense  !  Didn't  you  receive  a  letter  from  Maynard — 
the  morning  after  the  ball  ?  " 

Swinton  turned  white,  looking  in  all  directions  except  into  the 


A  Short -lived  Triumph.  113 

eyes  of  Lucas.     He  was  hesitating  to  gain  time — not  with  the 
intention  of  denying  it.     He  knew  that  he  dare  not. 

"Oh  !  yas — yas  !  "  he  replied  at  length.  "There  was  a  lettaw 
— a  very  queaw  epistle  indeed.  I  did  not  get  it  that  day  till  after 
yaw  had  gone.  My  valet  Fwank,  stoopid  fellow  !  had  thrown  fr 
into  a  cawner.     I  only  wed  it  on  the  following  mawning." 

"  You  have  it  still,  I  suppose  ?  " 

**  No,  indeed.     I  lit  my  cigaw  with  the  absawd  epistle.'* 

"  But  what  was  it  about  ?  " 

"Well — well ;  it  was  a  sort  of  apology  on  the  part  of  Mr.  May- 
nard — to  say  he  was  compelled  to  leave  Newport  by  the  evening 
bawt.  It  was  signed  by  his  fwend  Wupert  Woseveldt,  calling 
himself  a  Count  of  the  Austwian  Empire.  After  weading  it,  and 
knowing  that  the  writer  was  gone,  I  didn't  think  it  wawth  while  to 
twouble  you  any  fawther  about  the  disagweeable  business." 

"By  G —  !  Mr.  Swinton,  that  letter's  likely  to  get  us  both  into 
&  scrape ! " 

"  But  why,  my  deaw  fellow  ?  " 

"  Why  ?  Because  everybody  wants  to  know  what  it  was  about 
Vou  say  you've  destroyed  it  ?  " 

"  Tore  it  into  taypaws,  I  ashaw  you." 

"  More's  the  pity.  It's  well  known  that  a  letter  was  sent  and 
delivered  to  your  servant.  Of  course  every  one  supposes  that  it 
came  to  your  hands.     We're  bound  to  give  some  explanation." 

"  Twue — twue.     What  daw  you  suggest,  Mr.  Lucas  ?  " 

M  Why,  the  best  way  will  be  to  tell  the  truth  about  it  You  got 
the  letter  too  late  to  make  answer  to  it.  It's  already  known  why 
so  that,  so  far  as  you  are  concerned,  the  thing  can't  be  any  worse. 
It  lets  Maynard  out  of  the  scrape — that's  all." 

"  Yaw  think  we'd  better  make  a  clean  bweast  of  it?  n 

"  I'm  sure  of  it.     We  must." 

"  Well,  Mr.  Lucas,  I  shall  agwee  to  anything  yaw  may  think 
pwopaw.     I  am  so  much  indebted  to  yaw." 

"  My  dear  sir,"  rejoined  Lucas,  "it's  no  longer  a  question  of 
what's  proper.  It  is  a  necessity  that  this  communication  passed 
between  Mr.  Maynard  and  yourself  should  be  explained.  I  am 
free,  I  suppose,  to  give  the  explanation  ?  " 

"  Oh,  pawfectly  free.     Of  cawse — of  cawse." 

I 


114  The  Child   Wife, 


Lucas  left  the  room,  determined  to  clear  himself  from  all  impu- 
tation. 

The  outside  world  was  soon  after  acquainted  with  the  spirit,  if 
not  the  contents  of  that  mysterious  epistle ;  which  re-established 
the  character  of  the  man  who  wrote,  while  damaging  that  of  him 
who  received  it. 

From  that  hour  Swinton  ceased  to  be  an  eagle  in  the  estimation 
of  the  Newport  society.  He  was  not  even  any  longer  a  success- 
ful hawk — the  pigeons  becoming  shy.  But  his  eyes  were  still 
bent  upon  that  bird  of  splendid  plumage — far  above  all  others — 
sresth  the  swooping  of  a  life  ! 


CHAPTER  XXIt 

*HE   CONSPIRACY   OF    CROWNS. 

The  revolutionary  throe  that  shook  the  thrones  of  Europe  in 
1848  was  but  one  of  those  periodical  upheavings  occurring  about 
every  half-century,  when  oppression  has  reached  that  point  to  be 
no  longer  endurable. 

Its  predecessor  of  1790,  after  some  fitful  flashes  of  success, 
alternating  with  intervals  of  gloom,  had  been  finally  struck  down 
upon  the  field  of  Waterloo,  and  there  buried  by  its  grim  execu- 
tioner, Wellington. 

But  the  grave  once  more  gave  up  its  dead ;  and  before  this 
cold-blooded  janizary  of  despotism  sank  into  his,  he  saw  the 
ghost  of  that  Liberty  he  had  murdered  start  into  fresh  life,  and 
threaten  the  crowned  tyrants  he  had  so  faithfully  served. 

Not  only  were  they  threatened,  but  many  of  them  dethroned. 
The  imbecile  Emperor  of  Austria  had  to  flee  from  his  capital,  as 
also  the  bureaucratic  King  of  France.  Weak  William  of  Prussia 
was  called  to  account  by  his  long-suffering  subjects,  and  compel- 
led, upon  bended  knees,  to  grant  them  a  Constitution. 

A  score  of  little  kinglets  had  to  follow  the  example ;  while  the 
Pope,  secret  supporter  of  them  all,  was  forced  to  forsake  the 
Vatican— that  focus  and  hotbed  of  political  and  religious  infamy 
— driven  out  by  the  eloquent  tongue  of  Mazzini  and  the  conquer- 
ing blade  of  Garibaldi. 

Even  England,  secure  in  a  profound  indifference  to  freedom 
and  reform,  trembled  at  the  cheers  of  the  Chartists. 

Every  crowned  head  in  Europe  had  its  "  scare  "  or  discomfi- 
ture ;  and,  for  a  time,  it  was  thought  that  Liberty  was  at  length 
achieved. 

Alas  !  it  was  but  a  di*am  of  the  people— short-lived  and  evan- 
escent— to  be  succeeded  by  another  long  sleep,  under  an  incubus 
heavier  and  more  horrid  th*»-  H  »t  hey  had  cast  off. 


n6  Ttie  Child  Wife. 


While  congratulating  one  another  on  their  slight  spasmodic 
success,  their  broken  fetters  were  being  repaired,  and  new  chains 
fabricated,  to  bind  them  faster  than  ever.  The  royal  blacksmiths 
were  at  work,  and  in  secret,  like  Vulcan  at  his  subte  rranean  forge. 

And  they  were  working  with  a  will,  their  object  and  interests 
being  the  same.  Their  common  danger  had  driven  them  to  9. 
united  action,  and  it  was  determined  that  their  private  quarrels 
should  henceforth  be  set  aside — to  be  resuscitated  only  as  shams, 
when  any  of  them  required  such  fillip  to  stimulate  the  loyalty  of 
his  subjects. 

This  was  the  new  programme  agreed  upon.  But,  before  it 
could  be  carried  out,  it  was  necessary  that  certain  of  them  should 
be  assisted  to  recover  that  ascendency  over  their  people,  lost  in 
the  late  revolution. 

Sweeping  like  a  tornado  over  Europe,  it  had  taken  one  and  all 
of  them  by  surprise.  Steeped  in  luxurious  indulgence — in  the 
exercise  of  petty  spites  and  Sardanapalian  excesses — confident  in 
the  vigilance  of  their  trusted  sentinel,  Wellington — they  had  not 
perceived  the  storm  till  it  came  tearing  over  them.  For  the  jailor 
of  Europe's  liberty  was  also  asleep.  Old  age,  with  its  weakened 
intellect,  had  stolen  upon  him,  and  he  still  dotingly  believed  in 
"  Brown  Bess,"  while  Colt's  revolver  and  the  needle-gun  were 
reverberating  in  his  ears. 

Yes,  the  victor  of  Waterloo  was  too  old  to  aid  the  sons  of  those 
tyrant  sires  he  had  re-established  on  their  thrones. 

And  they  had  no  other  military  leader — not  one.  Among 
them  there  was  not  a  soldier,  while  on  the  side  of  the  people 
were  the  Bems  and  Dembinskys,  Garibaldi,  Damjanich,  Klapka, 
and  Anglo-Hungarian  Guyon — a  constellation  of  flaming  swords  1 
As  statesmen  and  patriots  they  had  none  to  compete  with  Kos- 
suth, Manin,  and  Mazzini. 

In  the  field  of  fair  fight — either  military  or  diplomatic — the 
despots  stood  no  chance.  They  saw  it,  and  determined  upon 
treachery. 

For  this  they  knew  themselves  provided  with  tools  a  plenty ; 
but  two  that  promised  to  prove  specially  effective — seemingly 
created  for  the  occasion.  One  was  an  English  nobleman — an 
Irishman  by  birth — born  on  the  outside  edge  of  the  aristocracy  j 


The  Conspiracy  of  Crowns.  117 

who,  by  ingenious  political  jugglery,  had  succeeded  in  making 
himself  not  only  a  very  noted  character,  but  one  of  the  most 
powerful  diplomatists  in  Europe. 

And  this  without  any  extraordinary  genius.  On  the  contrary, 
h\o  intellect  was  of  the  humblest — never  rising  above  that  of  the 
trickster.  As  a  member  of  the  British  Parliament  his  speeches 
were  of  a  thoroughly  commonplace  kind,  usually  marked  by  some 
attempted  smartness  that  but  showed  the  puerility  and  poverty  of 
his  brain.  He  would  often  amuse  the  House  by  pulling  off  half- 
a-dozen  pairs  of  white  kid  gloves  during  the  delivery  of  one  of 
his  long  written-out  orations.  It  gave  him  an  air  of  aristocracy 
— no  small  advantage  in  the  eyes  of  an  English  audience. 

For  all  this,  he  had  attained  to  a  grand  degree  of  popularity, 
partly  from  the  pretence  of  being  on  the  Liberal  side,  but  more 
from  paltering  to  that  fiend  of  false  patriotism— national  preju 
dice. 

Had  his  popularity  been  confined  to  his  countrymen,  less  dam- 
age might  have  accrued  from  it. 

Unfortunately  it  was  not.  By  a  professed  leaning  toward  the 
interests  of  the  peoples,  he  had  gained  the  confidence  of  the 
revolutionary  leaders  all  over  Europe ;  and  herein  lay  his  power 
to  do  evil 

It  was  by  no  mere  accident  this  confidence  had  been  obtained. 
It  had  been  brought  about  with  a  fixed  design,  and  with  heads 
higher  than  his  for  its  contrivers.  In  short,  he  was  the  appointed 
political  spy  of  the  united  despots — the  decoy  set  by  them  for 
the  destruction  of  their  common  and  now  dreaded  enemy — the 
Republic. 

And  yet  that  man's  name  is  still  honoured  in  England,  the 
country  where,  for  two  hundred  years,  respect  has  been  paid  to 
the  traducers  of  Cromwell  1 

The  second  individual  on  whom  the  frightened  despots  had 
fixed  their  hopeful  eyes  was  a  man  of  a  different  race,  though 
not  so  different  in  character. 

He,  too,  had  crept  into  the  confidence  of  the  revolutionary 
party  by  a  series  of  deceptions,  equally  well  contrived,  and  by 
the  same  contrivers  who  had  put  forward  the  diplomatist. 

It  is  true,  the  leaders  of  the  people  were  not  unsuspicious  of 


u8  Tkt  Child  Wife. 


him.  The  hero  of  the  Boulogne  expedition,  with  the  tamed  eagle 
perched  upon  his  shoulder,  was  not  likely  to  prove  a  soldier  of 
Freedom,  nor  yet  its  apostle  ;  and  in  spite  of  his  revolutionary 
professions,  they  looked  upon  him  with  distrust. 

Had  they  seen  him,  as  he  set  forth  from  England  to  assume 
the  Presidency  of  France,  loaded  with  bags  of  gold — the  contri- 
butions of  the  crowned  heads  to  secure  it— they  might  have  been 
sure  of  the  part  he  was  about  to  play. 

He  had  been  employed  as  a  denize r  ressort — a  last  political 
necessity  of  the  despots.  Twelve  months  before  they  would  have 
scorned  such  a  scurvy  instrument,  and  did. 

But  times  had  suddenly  changed.  Orleans  and  Bourbon  were 
no  longer  available.  Both  dynasties  were  defunct,  or  existing 
without  influence.  There  was  but  one  power  that  could  be  used 
to  crush  republicanism  in  France — the  prestige  of  that  great  name* 
Napoleon,  once  more  in  the  full  sunlight  of  glory,  with  its  sins  for- 
given and  forgotten. 

He  who  now  represented  it  was  the  very  man  for  the  work,  for 
his  employers  knew  it  was  a  task  congenial  to  him. 

With  coin  in  his  purse,  and  an  imperial  crown  promised  for  his 
reward,  he  went  forth,  dagger  in  hand,  sworn  to  stab  Liberty  to 
the  heart  I 

History  records  how  faithfully  he  has  kept  his  oath/ 


CHAPTER   XXIII. 

THE   PROGRAMME   OF  THE   GREAT   POWERS. 

In  a  chamber  of  the  Tuileries  five  men  were  seated  around  a 
table. 

Before  them  were  decanters  and  glasses,  wine-bottles  of  varied 
shapes,  an  epergne  filled  with  choice  flowers,  silver  trays  loaded 
with  luscious  fruits,  nuts,  olives — in  short,  all  the  materials  of  a 
magnificent  dessert 

A  certain  odour  of  roast  meats,  passing  off  under  the  bouquet 
of  the  freshly-decanted  wines,  told  of  a  dinner  just  eaten,  the 
dishes  having  been  carried  away. 

The  gentlemen  had  taken  to  cigars,  and  the  perfume  of  finest 
Havana  tobacco  was  mingling  with  the  aroma  of  the  fruit  and 
flowers.  Smoking,  sipping,  and  chatting  with  light  nonchalance, 
at  times  even  flippantly,  one  could  ill  have  guessed  the  subject  of 
their  conversation.     - 

And  yet  it  was  of  so  grave  and  secret  a  nature,  that  the  butler 
and  waiters  had  been  ordered  not  to  re-enter  the  room — the  double 
door  having  been  close-shut  on  their  dismissal — while  in  the  cor- 
ridor outside  a  guard  was  kept  by  two  soldiers  in  grenadier 
uniform. 

The  five  men,  thus  cautious  against  being  overheard,  were  the 
representatives  of  the  Five  Great  Powers  of  Europe — England, 
Austria,  Russia,  Prussia,  and  France. 

They  were  not  the  ordinary  ambassadors  who  meet  to  arrange 
some  trivial  diplomatic  dispute,  but  plenipotentiaries  with  full 
power  to  shape  the  destinies  of  a  continent. 

And  it  was  this  that  had  brought  together  that  five-cornered 
conclave,  consisting  of  an  English  Lord,  an  Austrian  Field-Mari 
shal,  a  Russian  Grand  Duke,  a  distinguished  Prussian  diplomatist! 
and  the  President  of  France — host  of  the  other  four. 

They  were  sitting  in  conspiracy  against  the  peoples  of  Europe, 

"9 


120  The  Child  Wife. 


set  free  by  the  late  revolutions — with  the  design  to  plot  their 
re-enslavement. 

Their  scheme  of  infamy  had  been  maturely  considered,  and 
perfected  before  adjourning  to  the  dinner-table. 

There  had  been  scarce  any  discussion ;  since,  upon  its  main 
points,  there  was  mutual  accord 

Their  after-dinner  conversation  was  but  a  resume  of  what  had 
been  resolved  upon — hence,  perhaps,  the  absence  of  that  gravity 
befitting  such  weighty  matter,  and  which  had  characterized  their 
conference  at  an  earlier  hour. 

They  were  now  resting  over  their  cigars  and  wines,  jocularly 
agreeable,  as  a  band  of  burglars,  who  have  arranged  all  the  pre- 
liminaries for  the  *'  cracking  of  a  crib." 

The  English  lord  seemed  especially  in  good  humour  with  him- 
self and  all  the  others.  Distinguished  throughout  his  life  for  what 
some  called  an  amiable  levity,  but  others  thought  to  be  an  un- 
amiable  heartlessness,  he  was  in  the  element  to  delight  him.  Of 
origin  not  very  noble,  he  had  attained  to  the  plenitude  of  power, 
and  now  saw  himself  one  of  five  men  entrusted  with  the  affairs  of 
the  Great  European  Aristocracy,  against  the  European  people.  He 
had  been  one  of  the  principal  plotters — suggesting  many  points 
of  the  plan  that  had  been  agreed  upon ;  and  from  this,  as  also  the 
greatness  of  the  nation  he  represented,  was  acknowledged  as  having 
a  sort  of  tacit  chairmanship  over  his  fellow-conspirators. 

The  real  presidency,  however,  was  in  the  Prince-President— 
partly  out  of  regard  to  his  high  position,  and  partly  that  he  was 
the  host. 

After  an  hour  or  so  passed  in  desultory  conversation,  the  "  man 
of  a  mission,"  standing  with  his  back  to  the  fire,  with  hands  part- 
ing his  coat  tails — the  habitual  attitude  of  the  Third  Napoleon 
— took  the  cigar  from  between  his  teeth,  and  made  resu?ne  as 
follows : — 

"  Understood,  then,  that  you,  Prussia,  send  a  force  into  Baden, 
sufficient  to  crush  those  pot-valiant  German  collegians,  mad,  no 
doubt,  from  drinking  your  villainous  Rhine  wine  !  " 

"Mercy  on  Metternich,  cher  President.  Think  of  Johanis- 
kwsrger  1 " 

It  was  the  facetious  Englishman  who  was  answerable  for  this. 


The  Programme  of  the  Great  Powers,  121 

"  Ya,  mein  Prinz,  ya,"  was  the  more  serious  response  of  the 
Prussian  diplomatist. 

1  Give  'em  grape,  instead  of  grapes,"  put  in  the  punster. 
sAnd  you,  Highness,  bind  Russia  to  do  the  same  for   these 
hogdrovers  of  the  Hungarian  Puszta?" 

1  Two  hundred  thousand  men  are  ready  to  march  down  upon 
them,"  responded  the  Grand  Duke. 

"Take  care  you  don't  catch  a  Tartar,  mon  cher  altessef 
cautioned  the  punning  plenipotentiary. 

"  You're  quite  sure  of  Georgei,  Marshal  ?  "  went  on  the  Presi- 
dent, addressing  himself  to  the  Austrian. 

"  Quite.  He  hates  this  Kossuth  as  the  devil  himself;  and  per- 
haps a  little  worse.  He'd  see  him  and  his  Honveds  at  the  bottom 
of  the  Danube;  and  I've  no  doubt  will  hand  them  over,  neck 
and  crop,  as  soon  as  our  Russian  allies  show  themselves  over  the 
frontier." 

u  And  a  crop  of  necks  you  intend  gathering,  I  presume  ?  "  said 
the  heartless  wit. 

"  Tres-bien  / "  continued  the  President,  without  noticing  the 
sallies  of  his  old  friend,  the  lord.  "  I,  on  my  part,  will  take  care 
of  Italy.  I  think  I  can  trust  superstition  to  assist  me  in  restoring 
poor  old  Pio  Nono." 

"  Your  own  piety  will  be  sufficient  excuse  for  t'hat,  mon  Prince. 
Tis  a  holy  crusade,  and  who  more  fitted  than  you  to  undertake 
it  ?  With  Garibaldi  for  your  Saladin,  you  will  be  called  Louis  of 
tlic  Lion-heart !  " 

The  gay  viscount  laughed  at  his  own  conceit ;  the  others  join- 
ing him  in  the  cachinnation. 

"  Come,  my  lord ! "  jokingly  rejoined  the  Prince-President, 
"  it's  not  meet  for  you  to  be  merry.  John  Bull  has  an  easy  part 
to  play  in  this  grand  game  !  " 

"  Easy,  you  call  it  ?  He's  got  to  provide  the  stakes — the 
monisch.     And,  after  all,  what  does  he  gain  by  it?  " 

"  What  does  he  gain  by  it  ?  Pardleu  /  You  talk  that  way  in 
memory  of  your  late  scare  by  the  Chartists?  Foi  d'honntte 
komme  /  if  I  hadn't  played  special  constable  for  him,  you,  cher 
vicofiitc,  instead  of  being  here  as  a  plenipotentiary,  might  have 
been  this  day  enjoying  my  hospitality  as  an  exile  1 " 


122  The  Child  Wife. 


"  Ha— ha— ha  !     Ha— ha— ha  ! n 

Grave  Sclave,  and  graver  Teuton — Rus  sia,  Prussia,  and  Austria 
— took  part  in  the  laugh  ;  all  three  delighted  with  this  joke  at  the 
Englishman's  expense. 

But  their  debomiaire  fellow-conspirator  felt  no  spite  at  his  dis- 
comfiture ;  else  he  might  have  retorted  by  saying : 

"  But  for  John  Bull,  my  dear  Louis  Napoleon,  and  that  service 
you  pretend  to  make  light  of,  even  the  purple  cloak  of  your  great 
uncle,  descending  as  if  from  the  skies,  and  flouted  in  the  eyes  ol 
France,  might  not  have  lifted  you  into  the  proud  position  you  now 
hold — the  chair  of  a  President,  perhaps  to  be  yet  transformed  into 
the  throne  of  an  Emperor  !  " 

But  the  Englishman  said  naught  of  this.  He  was  too  much 
interested  in  the  hoped-for  transformation  to  make  light  of  it  just 
then  ;  and  instead  of  giving  rejoinder,  he  laughed  loud  as  any  of 
them. 

A  few  more  glasses  of  Moet  and  Madeira,  with  a  "tip"  of 
Tokay  to  accommodate  the  Austrian  Field-Marshal,  another  re- 
galia smoked  amidst  more  of  the  same  kind  of  persiflage,  and  the 
party  separated. 

Two  only  remained — Napoleon  and  his  English  guest 

It  is  possible — and  rather  more  than  probable — that  two  greater 
chicanes  never  sat  together  in  the  same  room  ! 

I  anticipate  the  start  which  this  statement  will  call  forth — am 
prepared  for  the  supercilious  sneer.  It  needs  experience,  such  as 
revolutionary  leaders  sometimes  obtain,  to  credit  the  scoundrelism 
of  conspiring  crowns ;  though  ten  minutes  spent  in  listening  to  the 
conversation  that  followed  would  make  converts  of  the  most 
incredulous. 

There  was  no  lack  of  confidence  between  the  two  men.  On  the 
contrary,  theirs  was  the  thickness  of  thieves ;  and  much  in  this 
light  did  they  look  upon  one  another. 

But  they  were  thieves  on  a  grand  scale,  who  had  stolen  from 
France  one-half  of  its  liberty,  and  were  now  plotting  to  deprive  it 
of  the  other. 

Touching  glasses,  they  resumed  discourse,  the  Prince  speaking 
first: 

"  About  this  purple  robe  ?    What  step  should  be  taken  ?     Until 


TJie  Programme  of  the  Great  Powers.  123 


3t  that  my  shoulders,  I  feel  weak  as  a  cat.  The  Assem- 
bly must  be  consulted  about  everything.  Even  this  paltry  affair 
of  restoring  \he  Pope  will  cost  me  a  herculean  effort. " 

The  English  plenipotentiary  did  not  make  immediate  reply. 
Tearing  a  kid  glove  between  his  fingers,  he  sat  reflecting — his 
very  common  face  contorted  with  an  expression  that  told  of  his 
being  engaged  in  some  perplexing  calculation. 

"  You  must  make  the  Assembly  more  tractable?  he  at  length 
replied,  in  a  tone  that  showed  the  joking  humour  had  gone  out  of 
him. 

"  True.     But  how  is  that  to  be  done  ?  " 

"  By  weeding  it" 

"Weeding  it?" 

"  Yes.  You  must  get  rid  of  the  Blancs,  Rollins,  Barbes,  and  all 
that  canaille." 

"Ehbien!     But  how? " 

"  By  disfranchising  their  sans  culottes  constituency  —  the 
blouses."  \ 

"  Mon  cher  vicomte  I     You  are  surely  jesting  ?  " 

"  No,  mon  cher  pri?ice.     I'm  in  earnest." 

"  Sacre  /  Such  a  bill  brought  before  the  Assembly  would  cause 
the  members  to  be  dragged  from  their  seats.  Disfranchise  the 
blouse  voters  !     Why,  there  are  two  millions  of  them  ! " 

"  All  the  more  reason  for  your  getting  rid  of  them.  And  it  can 
be  done.  You  think  there's  a  majority  of  the  deputies  who  would 
be  in  favour  of  it  ?  " 

"  I'm  sure  there  is.  As  you  know,  we've  got  the  Assembly 
packed  with  the  representatives  of  the  old  regime.  The  fear  would 
be  from  the  outside  rabble.  A  crowd  would  be  certain  to  gather, 
if  such  an  act  was  in  contemplation,  and  you  know  what  a 
Parisian  crowd  is,  when  the  question  is  political  ?  " 

"  But  I've  thought  of  a  way  of  scattering  your  crowd,  or  rather 
hindering  it  fror  coming  together." 

"  What  way,  mon  chert  " 

"  We  must  get  up  the  comb  of  the  Gallic  cock — set  his  feathers 
**n  end." 

"  I  don't  comprehend  you." 

"  It's  very  «mple.     On  our  side  well  insult  your  ambassador, 


124  The  Child  Wtft- 


De  Morny — some  trifling  affront  that  can  be  afterward  explained 
and  apologised  for.  I'll  manage  that  You  then  recall  him  in 
great  anger,  and  let  the  two  nations  be  roused  to  an  attitude  of 
hostility.  An  exchange  of  diplomatic  notes,  with  sufficient  and 
spiteful  wording,  some  sharp  articles  in  the  columns  of  your  Paris 
press — I'll  see  to  the  same  on  our  side — the  marching  hither  and 
thither  of  a  half-dozen  regiments,  a  little  extra  activity  in  the  dock- 
yards and  arsenals,  and  the  thing's  done.  While  the  Gallic  cock 
is  crowing  on  one  side  of  the  Channel,  and  the  British  bull-dog 
barking  on  the  other,  your  Assembly  may  pass  the  disfranchising 
act  without  fear  of  being  disturbed  by  the  blouses.  Take  my  word 
it  can  be  done." 

"  My  lord  !  you're  a  genius  !  " 

"  There's  not  much  genius  in  it.  It's  simple  as  a  game  of 
dominoes." 

"  It  shall  be  done.  You  promise  to  kick  De  Morny  out  of  your 
court.     Knowing  the  reason,  no  man  will  like  it  better  than  he  1 " 

"  I  promise  it." 

•  •  #  •  # 

The  promise  was  kept.  De  Morny  was  "  kicked  out  "  with  a 
silken  slipper,  and  the  rest  of  the  programme  was  carried  through 
— even  to  the  disfranchising  of  the  blouses. 

It  was  just  as  the  English  diplomat  had  predicted.  The  French 
people,  indignant  at  the  supposed  slight  to  their  ambassador,  in 
their  mad  hostility  to  England,  lost  sight  of  themselves  ;  and  while 
in  this  rabid  condition,  another  grand  slice  was  quietly  cut  from 
their  fast  attenuating  freedom. 

And  the  programme  of  that  more  extensive,  and  still  more 
sanguinary,  conspiracy  was  also  carried  out  to  the  letter. 

Before  the  year  had  ended,  the  perjured  King  of  Prussia  had 
marched  his  myrmidons  into  South  Germany,  trampling  out  the 
revived  flame  of  Badish  and  Bavarian  revolution ;  the  ruffian 
soldiers  of  the  Third  Napoleon  had  forced  back  upon  the  Roman 
people  their  detested  hierarch ;  while  a  grand  Cossack  army  of 
two  hundred  thousand  men  was  advancing  iron-heeled  over  the 
plain  of  the  Puszta  to  tread  out  the  last  spark  of  liberty  in  the 
East. 

This  is  not  romance  :  it  is  history ! 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

A  TREACHEROUS   STAGING. 

Men  make  the  crossing  of  the  Atlantic  in  a  Cunard  steamer,  sit 
side  by  side,  or  vis-a-vis^  at  the  same  table,  three  and  sometimes 
four  times  a  day,  without  ever  a  word  passing  between  them,  be- 
yond the  formulary  "  May  I  trouble  you  for  the  castors  ?  "  or  "  The 
salt,  please  ?  " 

They  are  usually  men  who  have  a  very  beautiful  wife,  a  rich 
marriageable  daughter,  or  a  social  position  of  which  they  are 
proud. 

No  doubt  these  vulnerable  individuals  lead  a  very  unhappy  life 
of  it  on  board  ship ;  especially  when  the  cabin  is  crowded,  and  the 
company  not  over  select. 

This  occurs  on  a  Cunarder  only  when  the  Canadian  shopkeepers 
are  flocking  for  England,  to  make  their  fall  purchases  in  the 
Manchester  market.  Then,  indeed,  the  crossing  of  the  Atlantic 
is  a  severe  trial  to  a  gentleman,  whether  he  be  English  or 
American. 

The  Cambria  was  full  of  them  ;  and  their  company  might  have 
tried  Sir  George  Vernon,  who  was  one  of  the  assailable  sort  de- 
scribed.    But  as  these  loyal  transatlantic  subjects  of  England  had 

heard  that  he  was  Sir  George  Vernon,  late  governor  of  B , 

it  was  hands  off  with  them,  and  the  ex-governor  was  left  to  his 
exclusiveness. 

For  the  very  opposite  reason  was  their  company  less  tolerable 
to  the  Austrian  Count ;  who,  republican  as  he  was,  could  not  bear 
the  sight  of  them.  Their  loyalty  stank  in  his  nostrils  ;  and  he 
seemed  to  long  for  an  opportunity  of  pitching  one  of  them  over- 
board. 

Indeed  there  was  once  he  came  near,  and  perhaps  would  have 
done  so,  but  for  the  mediation  of  Maynard,  who,  although 
younger  than  the  Count,  was  of  less  irascible  temperament 


126  The  Child  Wife. 


Roseveldt  was  not  without  reason,  as  every  American  who  has 
crossed  in  a  Cunard  ship  in  those  earlier  days  may  remember. 
The  super-loyal  Canadians  were  usually  in  the  ascendant,  and 
with  their  claqueries  and  whisperings  made  it  very  uncomfortable 
for  their  republican  fellow-passengers — especially  such  republicans 
as  the  scene  upon  the  Jersey  shore  had  shown  Maynard  and  Rose- 
veldt to  be.  It  was  before  the  establishment  of  the  more  liberal 
Inman  line ;  whose  splendid  ships  are  a  home  for  all  nationalities, 
hoisting  the  starry  flag  of  America  as  high  as  the  royal  standard 
of  England. 

Returning  to  our  text ;  that  men  may  cross  the  Atlantic  in  the 
same  cabin,  and  dine  at  the  same  table,  without  speaking  to  one 
another,  there  was  an  instance  on  board  the  Cambria.  The  indi- 
viduals in  question  were  Sir  George  Vernon  and  Captain  Maynard. 

At  every  meal  their  elbows  almost  touched  ;  for  the  steward,  no 
doubt  by  chance,  had  ticketed  them  to  seats  side  by  side. 

At  the  very  first  dinner  they  had  ever  eaten  together  a  coldness 
had  sprung  up  between  them  that  forbade  all  further  communica- 
tion. Some  remark  Maynard  had  made,  intended  to  be  civil,  had 
been  received  with  a  hauteur  that  stung  the  young  soldier ;  and 
from  that  moment  a  silent  reserve  was  established. 

Either  would  have  gone  without  the  salt,  rather  than  ask  it  of 
the  other ! 

It  was  unfortunate  for  Maynard,  and  he  felt  it.  He  longed  to 
converse  with  that  strangely  interesting  child ;  and  this  was  no 
k)nger  possible.  Delicacy  hindered  him  from  speaking  to  her 
apart;  though  he  could  scarce  have  found  opportunity,  as  her 
father  rarely  permitted  her  to  stray  from  his  side. 

And  by  his  side  she  sat  at  the  table ;  on  that  other  side  where 
Maynard  could  not  see  her,  except  in  the  mirror ! 

That  mirror  lined  the  length  of  the  saloon,  and  the  three  sat 
opposite  to  it  when  at  table. 

For  twelve  days  he  gazed  into  it,  during  the  eating  of  every 
meal ;  furtively  at  the  face  of  Sir  George,  his  glance  changing  as 
it  fell  on  that  other  face  reflected  from  the  polished  plate  in  hues 
of  rose  and  gold.  How  often  did  he  inwardly  anathematize  a 
Canadian  Scotchman,  who  sat  opposite,  and  whose  huge  shaggy 
"  pow  "  interposed  between  him  and  the  beautiful  reflection  I 


A   Treacherous  Staging.  127 

Was  the  child  aware  of  this  second-hand  surveillance  ?  Was 
she,  too,  at  times  vexed  by  the  exuberant  chevelure  of  the  Cale- 
donian, that  hindered  her  from  the  sight  of  eyes  gazing  affection- 
ately, almost  tenderly,  upon  her  ? 

It  is  difficult  to  say.  Young  girls  of  thirteen  have  sometimes 
strange  fancies.  And  it  is  true,  though  strange,  that,  with  them, 
the  man  of  thirty  has  more  chance  of  securing  their  attention  than 
when  they  are  ten  years  older  !  Then  their  young  heart,  unsus- 
picious of  deception,  yields  easier  to  the  instincts  of  Nature's 
innocency,  receiving  like  soft  plastic  wax  the  impress  of  that  it 
admires.  It  is  only  later  that  experience  of  the  world's  wicked- 
ness trains  it  to  reticence  and  suspicion. 

During  those  twelve  days  Maynard  had  many  a  thought  about 
that  child's  face  seen  in  the  glass — many  a  surmise  as  to  whether, 
and  what,  she  might  be  thinking  of  him. 

But  Cape  Clear  came  in  sight,  and  he  was  no  nearer  to  a  know- 
ledge of  her  inclinings  than  when  he  first  saw  her,  on  parting  from 
Sandy  Hook !  Nor  was  there  any  change  in  his.  As  he  stood 
upon  the  steamer's  deck,  coasting  along  the  southern  shore  of  his 
native  land,  with  the  Austrian  by  his  side,  he  made  the  same 
remark  he  had  done  within  sight  of  Staten  Island. 

"  I  have  a  presentiment  that  child  will  yet  be  my  wife  1 n 

And  again  he  repeated  it,  in  the  midst  of  the  Mersey's  flood, 
when  the  tender  became  attached  to  the  great  ocean  steamer,  and 
the  passengers  were  being  taken  off — among  them  Sir  George 
Vernon  and  his  daughter — soon  to  disappear  from  his  sight — 
perhaps  never  to  be  seen  more. 

What  could  be  the  meaning  of  this  presentiment,  so  seemingly 
absurd  ?  Sprung  from  the  gaze  given  him  on  the  deck,  where  he 
had  first  seen  her ;  continued  by  many  a  glance  exchanged  in  the 
cabin  mirror ;  left  by  her  last  look  as  she  ascended  the  steps 
leading  to  the  stage  plank  of  the  tender — what  could  be  its  mean- 
ing? 

Even  he  who  felt  it  could  not  answer  the  question.  He  could 
only  repeat  to  himself  the  very  unsatisfactory  rejoinder  he  had 
often  heard  among  the  Mexicans,  "  Quien  sabe  1 " 

He  little  thought  how  near  that  presentiment  was  of  being 
strengthened. 


128  The  Child  Wife, 


One  of  those  trivial  occurrences,  that  come  so  close  to  becom- 
ing an  accident,  chanced,  as  the  passengers  were  being  transferred 
from  the  steamer  to  the  "  tug." 

The  aristocratic  ex-governor,  shy  of  being  hustled  by  a  crowd, 
had  waited  to  the  last,  his  luggage  having  been  passed  before  him. 
Only  Maynard,  Roseveldt,  and  a  few  others  still  stood  upon  the 
gangway,  politely  giving  him  place. 

Sir  George  had  stepped  out  upon  the  staging,  his  daughter  close 
following ;  the  mulatto,  bag  in  hand,  with  some  space  intervening, 
behind. 

A  rough  breeze  was  on  the  Mersey,  with  a  strong  quick  current ; 
and  by  some  mischance  the  hawser,  holding  the  two  boats  together, 
suddenly  gave  way.  The  anchored  ship  held  her  ground,  while 
the  tug  drifted  rapidly  sternward.  The  stage-plank  became 
slewed,  its  outer  end  slipping  from  the  paddle-box  just  as  Sir 
George  set  foot  upon  the  tender.  With  a  crash  it  went  down 
upon  the  deck  below. 

The  servant,  close  parting  from  the  bulwarks,  was  easily  dragged 
back  again;  but  the  child,  halfway  along  the  staging,  was  in  immi- 
nent danger  of  being  projected  into  the  water.  The  spectators 
saw  it  simultaneously,  and  a  cry  from  both  ships  proclaimed  the 
peril.  She  had  caught  the  hand-rope,  and  was  hanging  on,  the 
slanted  plank  affording  her  but  slight  support. 

And  in  another  instant  it  would  part  from  the  tender,  still  driv- 
ing rapidly  astern.  It  did  part,  dropping  with  a  plash  upon  the 
seething  waves  below ;  but  not  before  a  man,  gliding  down  the 
slope,  had  thrown  his  arm  around  the  imperilled  girl,  and  carried 
her  safely  back  over  the  bulwarks  of  the  steamer  I 

There  was  no  longer  a  coldness  between  Sir  George  Vernon 
and  Captain  Maynard  ;  for  it  was  the  latter  who  had  rescued  the 
child. ' 

As  they  parted  on  the  Liverpool  landing,  hands  were  shaken, 
and  cards  exchanged — that  of  the  English  baronet  accompanied 
with  an  invitation  for  the  revolutionary  leader  to  visit  him  at  his. 
country-seat ;  the  address  given  upon  the  card,  "  Vernon  Park, 
Sevenoaks,  Kent." 

It  is  scarce  necessary  to  say  that  Maynard  promised  to  honoui 
the  invitation,  and  made  careful  registry  of  the  address. 


A  Treacherous  Staging.  129 

And  now,  more  than  ever,  did  he  feel  that  strange  forecast,  as 
he  saw  the  girlish  face,  with  its  deep  blue  eyes,  looking  gratefully 
from  the  carriage-window,  in  which  Sir  George,  with  his  belong- 
ings, was  whirled  away  from  the  wharf. 

His  gaze  followed  that  thing  of  roseate  hue  ;  and  long  after  it 
was  out  of  sight  he  stood  thinking  of  it. 

It  was  far  from  agreeable  to  be  aroused  from  his  dreamy  reveris 
—even  by  a  voice  friendly  as  that  of  Roseveldt ! 

The  Count  was  by  his  side,  holding  in  his  hand  a  newspaper. 

It  was  the  Times  of  London,  containing  news  to  them  of  painful 
import. 

It  did  not  come  as  a  shock.  The  journals  brought  aboard  by 
the  pilot — as  usual,  three  days  old — had  prepared  them  for  a  tale 
of  disaster.     What  they  now  read  was  only  its  confirmation. 

"  It's  true ! "  said  Roseveldt,  pointing  to  the  conspicuous 
capitals : 

THE  PRUSSIAN  TROOPS  HAVE  TAKEN  RASTADT! 
THE  BAVARIAN  REVOLUTION  AT  AN  END  ! 

As  he  pointed  to  this  significant  heading,  a  wild  oath,  worthy 
of  one  of  Schiller's  student  robbers,  burst  from  his  lips,  while  he 
struck  his  heel  down  upon  the  floating  wharf  as  though  he  would 
have  crushed  the  plank  beneath  him. 

"  A  curse!"  he  cried,  "  an  eternal  curse  upon  the  perjured  King 
of  Prussia  !  And  those  stupid  North  Germans  !  I  knew  he  would 
never  keep  his  oath  to  them  ! " 

Maynard,  though  sad,  was  less  excited.  It  is  possible  that  he 
bore  the  disappointment  better  by  thinking  of  that  golden-haired 
girl.  She  would  still  be  in  England ;  where  he  must  needs  now 
stay. 

This  was  his  first  reflection.  It  was  not  a  resolve  ;  only  a  tran- 
sient thought. 

It  passed  almost  on  the  instant,  at  an  exclamation  from  Roseveldt, 
once  more  reading  from  the  paper  : 

"  Kossuth  still  holds  out  in  Hungary  ;  though  the  Russian  army 
is  reported  as  closing  around  Aradf" 

"Thank  God  1"  cried  Roseveldt ;  "  we  may  yet  be  in  time  for 
that!" 


130  The  Child  Wife. 


"  Should  we  not  wait  for  our  men  ?  I  fear  we  two  could  be  of 
slight  service  without  them." 

The  remembrance  of  that  angelic  child  was  making  an  angel  of 
Mavnard  ! 

"  Slight  service  !  A  sword  like  yours,  and  mine  !  Pardonne\s 
moil  Who  knows,  chcr  capitaine,  that  I  may  not  yet  sheathe  it 
in  the  black  heart  of  a  Hapsburg?  Let  us  on  to  Hungary  !  It  is 
the  same  cause  as  ours." 

"  I  agree,  Roseveldt.  I  only  hesitated,  thinking  of  your  danger 
if  taken  upon  Austrian  soil." 

"  Let  them  hang  me  if  they  will.  But  they  won't,  if  we  can  only 
reach  Kossuth  and  his  brave  companions.  Aulich,  Perezel,  Dem- 
binsky,  Nagy,  Sandor,  and  Damjanich.  Maynard,  I  know  them 
all.  Once  among  these,  there  is  no  danger  of  the  rope.  If  we 
die,  it  will  be  sword  in  hand,  and  among  heroes.  Let  us  on,  then, 
to  Kossuth ! " 

"  To  Kossuth  I  "  echoed  Maynard,  and  the  golden-haired  girl 
was  forgotten  1 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

THE    FIFTH   AVENUE    HOUSE. 

The  Newport  season  was  over.  Mrs.  Girdwood  had  returned  to 
her  splendid  mansion  in  the  Fifth  Avenue,  soon  to  receive  a 
visitor,  such  as  even  Fifth  Avenue  houses  do  not  often  entertain — 
an  English  lord — Mr.  Swinton,  the  nobleman  incogs  had  accepted 
her  invitation  to  dinner. 

It  was  to  be  a  quiet  family  affair.  Mrs.  Girdwood  could  not  wel' 
have  it  otherwise,  as  the  circle  of  her  acquaintance  fit  to  meet 
such  a  distinguished  guest  was  limited.  She  had  not  been  long  in 
the  Fifth  Avenue  house — only  since  a  little  before  the  death  of  her 
late  husband,  the  deceased  storekeeper,  who  had  taken  the  place 
at  her  earnest  solicitations. 

In  fact  it  was  whispered  that  the  grand  mansion  had  caused  his 
death.  It  was  too  splendid  for  comfort — it  required  a  complete 
change  in  his  habits;  and  perhaps  he  was  troubled  about  the 
expense,  which  was  wholesale,  while  he  had  been  all  his  life 
accustomed  to  the  retail. 

From  whatever  cause,  his  spirits  sank  under  its  lofty  ceilings, 
and  after  wandering  for  three  months  through  the  spacious  apart- 
ments, listening  to  his  own  lonely  tread,  he  lay  down  upon  one  of 
its  luxurious  couches  and  died  ! 

It  was  more  cheerful  after  his  demise ;  but  as  yet  unvisited  by 
the  elite.  Mr.  Swinton  was  the  first  of  this  class  who  was  to 
stretch  his  limbs  under  the  Girdwood  mahogany;  but  then  he 
was  at  the  head  of  it.  A  good  beginning,  reflected  widow 
Girdwood. 

"  We  shall  have  no  one  to  meet  you,  my  lord.  We  are  too  busy 
in  preparing  for  our  voyage  to  Europe.  Only  the  girls  and  myself. 
I  hope  you  won't  mind  that." 

"  Pway  madam,  don't  mention  it  Yaw  own  intewesting 
family ;  just  the  sort  of   thing  I    take    pleasyaw    in.      Nothing 


i32  The  Child  Wife. 


baws  me  more  than  one  of  those  gweat  pawties — gvvand  kwushes, 
as  we  call  them  in  England." 

"  I'm  glad  of  it,  my  lord.  We  shall  expect  you  then  on  next 
Tuesday.     Remember,  we  dine  at  seven." 

This  brief  dialogue  occurred  in  the  Ocean,  House  at  Newport, 
just  as  Mrs.  Gird  wood  was  getting  into  the  hack  to  be  taken  to  the 
New  York  boat. 

Tuesday  came,  and  along  with  it  Mr.  Swinton,  entering  the 
Fifth  Avenue  mansion  at  7  p.m.,  punctual  to  his  appointment. 

The  house  was  lit  up  brilliantly,  and  in  the  same  style  was  the 
guest  got  up,  having  dressed  himself  with  the  greatest  care.  So, 
too,  the  hostess,  her  daughter,  and  niece. 

But  the  dining-party  was  not  yet  complete ;  two  others  were 
expected,  who  soon  came  in. 

They  were  Miv  Lucas  and  his  acolyte,  also  returned  to  New 
York,  and  who,  having  made  Mrs.  Girdwood's  acquaintance  at 
Newport,  through  the  medium  of  Mr.  Swinton,  were  also  included 
in  the  invitation. 

It  made  the  party  compact  and  in  proportion  ;  three  ladies, 
with  the  same  number  of  gentlemen — the  set  of  six — though  per- 
haps in  the  eyes  of  the  latter  their  hostess  was  de  trop.  Lucas 
had  conceived  thoughts  about  Julia,  while  his  friend  saw  stars  in 
the  blue  eyes  of  Cornelia.  All  sorted  together  well  enough ;  Mr. 
Swinton  being  of  course  the  lion  of  the  evening.  This  from  his 
being  a  stranger — an  accomplished  Englishman.  It  was  but 
natural  courtesy.  Again,  Mrs.  Girdwood  longed  to  make  known 
how  great  a  lion  he  was.    But  Mr.  Swinton  had  sworn  her  to  secrecy. 

Over  the  dinner-table  the  conversation  was  carried  on  without 
restraint.  People  of  different  nations,  who  speak  the  same  lan- 
guage, have  no  difficulty  in  finding  a  topic.  Their  respective 
countries  supply  them  with  this.  America  was  talked  of;  but 
more  England.  Mrs.  Girdwood  was  going  there  by  the  next 
steamer — state-rooms  already  engaged.  It  was  but  natural  she 
should  make  inquiries. 

"  About  your  hotels  in  London,  Mr.  Swinton.  Of  course  we'll 
have  to  stop  at  an  hotel.     Which  do  you  consider  the  best?  " 

"Clawndon,  of  cawse.  Clawndon,  in  Bond  Stweet  Ba  al) 
means  go  there,  madam," 


The  Fifth  Avenue  House.  133 

"The  Clarendon,"  said  Mrs.  Girdwood,  taking  out  her  card- 
case,  and  pencilling  the  name  upon  a  card.  "  Bond  Street,  you 
say  ?  " 

"  Bond  Stweet.  It's  our  fashionable  pwomenade,  or  rather  the 
stweet  where  our  best  twadesmen  have  their  shops." 

"  We  shall  go  there,"  said  Mrs.  Girdwood,  registering  the  address, 
and  returning  the  card-case  to  her  reticule. 

It  is  not  necessary  to  detail  the  conversation  that  followed 
It  is  usually  insipid  over  a  dinner-table  where  the  guests  are  strange 
to  one  another;  and  Mrs.  Girdwood's  guests  came  under  this 
category. 

For  all  that,  everything  went  well  and  even  cheerfully,  Julia 
alone  at  times  looking  a  little  abstracted,  and  so  causing  some 
slight  chagrin  both  to  Lucas  and  Swinton. 

Now  and  then,  however,  each  had  a  glance  from  those  bistre- 
coloured  eyes,  that  flattered  them  with  hopes  for  the  future. 

They  were  dread,  dangerous  eyes,  those  of  Julia  Girdwood. 
Their  glances  had  come  near  disturbing  the  peace  of  mind  of  a 
man  as  little  susceptible  as  either  Louis  Lucas  or  Richard  Swin- 
ton. 

The  dinner-party  was  over ;  the  trio  of  gentlemen  guests  were 
taking  their  departure. 

"  When  may  we  expect  you  in  England,  my  lord  ?  "  asked  the 
hostess,  speaking  to  Mr.  Swinton  apart. 

"  By  the  next  steamaw,  madam.  I  wegwet  I  shall  not  have  the 
pleasyaw  of  being  your  fellaw  passengaw.  I  am  detained  in  this 
countwy  by  a  twifle  of  business,  in  connection  with  the  Bwitish 
Government.     A  gweat  baw  it  is,  but  I  cannot  escape  it." 

"  I  am  sorry,"  answered  Mrs.  Girdwood.  "  It  would  have  been 
so  pleasant  for  us  to  have  had  your  company  on  the  voyage.  And 
my  girls  too,  I'm  sure  they  would  have  liked  it  exceedingly.  But 
I  hope  we'll  see  you  on  the  other  side." 

"  Undoubtedly,  madam.  Indeed,  I  should  be  vewy  misewable 
to  think  we  were  not  to  meet  again.  You  go  diwect  to  London, 
of  cawse.     How  long  do  you  pwopose  wemaining  there  ?  n 

"  Oh,  a  long  time — perhaps  aH  the  winter.  After  that  we  will 
go  up  the  Rhine — to  Vienna,  Paris,  Italy.  We  intend  making  the 
usual  tour." 


134  The  Child  Wife. 


u  You  say  you  will  stop  at  the  Clawndon  ?  " 

"We  intend  so,  since  you  recommend  it  We  shall  be  there  as 
long  as  we  remain  in  London." 

"  I  shall  take  the  libawty  of  pwesenting  my  wespects  to  you,  as 
soon  as  T  weach  England." 

'  My  lord  I  we  shall  look  for  you." 

•  ••••• 

The  drawing-room  door  was  closed,  the  ladies  remaining  inside. 
The  three  gentlemen  guests  were  in  the  entrance  hall,  footman 
and  butler  helping  them  to  hat  and  surtout.  Though  they  had 
not  come  in,  all  three  went  out  together. 

"  Where  now  ? "  asked  Lucas,  as  they  stood  upon  the  flags  of 
the  Fifth  Avenue.     "  It's  too  early  to  go  to  bed." 

"  A  vewy  sensible  obsawvation,  fwiend  Lucas  !  "  said  Swinton, 
inspired  by  a  free  potation  of  the  widow's  choice  wines.  "  Where 
do  yaw  say  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  say,  let's  have  some  sport  Have  you  got  any  money 
upon  you,  Mr.  Swinton  ?  " 

Mr.  Lucas  was  still  ignorant  that  his  companion  was  a  lord. 

"  Oh,  yas — yas.  A  thousand  of  your  demmed  dollars,  I  be- 
lieve." 

"  Excuse  me  for  putting  the  question.  I  only  asked  in  case 
you  might  require  a  stake.  If  you  do,  my  little  pile's  at  your 
service." 

"  Thanks — thanks !  I'm  weady  for  spawt — stake  all  paw. 
vided." 

Lucas  led  the  way,  from  the  Fifth  Avenue  to  Broadway,  and 
down  Broadway  to  a  "  hell ;  "  one  of  those  snug  little  establish- 
ments in  an  off-street,  with  supper  set  out,  to  be  eaten  only  by  the 
initiated. 

Swinton  became  one  of  them.  Lucas  had  reasons  for  introduc- 
ing him.     His  reflections  were  : 

"  This  Englishman  appears  to  have  money — more  than  he 
knows  what  to  do  with.  But  he  didn't  drop  any  of  it  in  Newport. 
On  the  contrary,  he  must  have  increased  his  capital  by  the  pluck- 
ing of  certain  pigeons  to  whom  I  introduced  him.  I'm  curious  to 
§ee  how  he'll  get  along  with  the  hawks*     He's  among  them  now/1 


The  Fifth  Avenue  House.  135 


\  The  introducer  of  Swinton  had  an  additional  reflection  suggested 
bx  the  remembrance  of  Julia  Girdwood. 

\l  hope  they'll  get  his  dollars— clear  him  out,  the  cur — and 
serve  him  right  too.     I  believe  he's  a  devilish  schemer." 

The  wish  had  jealousy  for  its  basis. 

Before  the  gambler  proclaimed  his  bank  closed  for  the  night 
the  false  friend  saw  the  realization  of  his  hopes. 

Despite  his  customary  astuteness,  the  ex-guardsman  was  not 
cunning  in  his  cups.  The  free  supper,  with  its  cheap  champagne, 
had  reduced  him  to  a  condition  of  innocence  resembling  the 
pigeons  he  was  so  fain  to  pluck,  and  he  left  the  hawks'  nest 
without  a  dollar  in  his  pocket ! 

Lucas  lent  him  one  to  pay  for  the  hack  that  carried  him  to  hi* 
hotel ;  and  thus  the  two  parted  I 


CHAPTER  XXVL 

ELJEN   KOSSUTH  I 

An  autumn  sun  was  just  rising  over  the  plains  of  the  yellow 
Theiss,  when  two  travellers,  issuing  from  the  gates  of  the  old 
fortified  city  of  Arad,  took  their  way  toward  the  village  of  Vilagos, 
some  twenty  miles  distant. 

It  is  scarce  necessary  to  say  they  were  on  horseback.  Men  do 
not  journey  afoot  on  the  plains  of  the  "  Puszta." 

Their  military  cottume  was  in  keeping  with  the  scene  around. 
Not  as  it  would  have  been  in  its  normal  and  usual  state,  with  the 
ihaz  quietly  attending  his  swine  drove,  and  the  csiko  galloping 
after  his  half-wild  colts  and  cattle.  For  Arad  was  now  the  head- 
quarters of  the  Hungarian  army,  and  the  roads  around  it  hourly 
echoed  the  tread  of  the  Honved,  and  hoofstroke  of  the  hussar. 

The  patriot  force  of  less  than  thirty  thousand  men  had  moved 
upon  Vilagos,  there  to  meet  the  Austro-Russian  advance,  of  just 
four  times  their  number ;  Georgei  the  commanding  general  on 
one  side,  and  Riidiger  on  the  other. 

The  two  horsemen  had  reached  Arad  but  the  night  before, 
coming  from  the  West.  They  had  arrived  too  late  to  go  out  with 
the  patriot  troops,  and  seemed  now  hurrying  on  to  overtake  them. 
Though  in  uniform,  as  we  have  already  said,  it  was  not  that 
belonging  to  any  branch  of  the  Hungarian  service.  No  more  did 
it  resemble  any  one  of  the  varied  military  costumes  worn  by  the 
allied  enemy.  Both  were  habited  very  much  alike ;  in  simple 
undress  frocks  of  dark  blue  cloth,  with  gold-lace  pantaloons  of 
brighter  blue,  and  banded  forage-caps. 

With  Colt's  revolver  pistols — then  an  arm  scarce  known — worn 
in  a  holstered  waist-belt,  steel  sabres  hanging  handy  against  their 
thighs,  and  short  Jager  rifles  slung,  en  bandolier^  behind  them,  the 
dress  looked  warlike  enough ;  and,  on  whatever  side,  it  wa« 
evident  the  two  travellers  intended  fighting. 


Eljen  Kossuth!  137 


This  was  further  manifest  from  their  anxious  glances  cast  ahead, 
and  the  way  they  pressed  their  horses  forward,  as  if  fearing  to  be 

too  late  for  the  field. 

They  were  of  different  ages ;  one  over  forty,  the  other  about 

twenty-five. 

"  I  don't  like  the  look  of  things  about  Arad,"  said  the  elder,  as 
they  checked  up  for  a  time,  to  breathe  their  horses. 

"  Why,  Count  ?  "  asked  his  companion. 

"  There  seems  to  be  a  bad  electricity  in  the  air — a  sort  of  general 
distrust." 

"  In  what,  or  whom  ?  ° 

"  In  Georgei.  I  could  see  that  the  people  have  lost  confidence 
in  him.  They  even  suspect  that  he's  playing  traitor,  and  has 
thoughts  of  surrendering  to  the  enemy." 

"  What !  Georgei — their  favourite  general  !     Is  he  not  so  ?  " 

"  Of  the  old  army,  yes.  But  not  of  the  new  levies  or  the  people 
In  my  opinion,  the  worst  thing  that  could  have  happened  to  them 
is  his  having  become  so.  It's  the  old  story  of  regulars  versus 
volunteers.  He  hates  the  Honveds,  and  Kossuth  for  creating 
them,  just  as  in  our  little  Mexican  skirmish,  there  was  a  jealousy 
between  West  Pointers  and  the  newly-raised  regiments. 

"  There  are  thousands  of  donkeys  in  Hungary,  as  in  the  United 
States,  who  believe  that  to  be  a  soldier  a  man  must  go  through 
some  sort  of  a  routine  training — forgetting  all  about  Cromwell  of 
England,  Jackson  of  America,  and  a  score  of  the  like  that  might 
be  quoted.  Well,  these  common  minds,  running  in  the  usual 
groove,  believe  that  Georgei,  because  he  was  once  an  officer  in 
the  Austrian  regular  army,  should  be  the  trusted  man  of  the  time  • 
and  they've  taken  him  up,  and  trusted  him  without  further 
questioning.  I  know  him*  well.  We  were  at  the  military  school 
together.  A  cool,  scheming  fellow,  with  the  head  of  a  chemist 
and  the  heart  of  an  alchemist.  Of  himself  he  has  accomplished 
nothing  yet.  The  brilliant  victories  gained  on  the  Hungarian  side 
— and  brilliant  have  they  been — have  all  been  due  to  the  romantic 
enthusiasm  of  these  fiery  Magyars,  and  the  dash  of  such  generals 
as  Nagy  Sandor,  Damjanich,  and  Guyon.  There  can  be  no  doubt 
that,  after  the  successes  on  the  Upper  Danube,  the  patriot  army 
could  havf  marched   unmolested  into  Vienna,  and  there  dictated 


138  The  Child   Wife. 


terms  to  the  Austrian  Empire.  The  emperor's  panic-stricken 
troops  were  absolutely  evacuating  the  place,  when,  instead  of  a 
pursuing  enemy,  news  came  after  them  that  the  victorious  general 
had  turned  back  with  his  whole  army,  to  lay  siege  to  the  fortress 
of  Ofen !  To  capture  an  insignificant  garrison  of  less  than  six 
thousand  men  !  Six  weeks  were  spent  in  this  absurd  side  move- 
ment, contrary  to  the  counsels  of  Kossuth,  who  had  never  ceased 
to  urge  the  advance  on  Vienna.  Georgei  did  just  what  the 
Austrians  wanted  him  to  do — giving  their  northern  allies  time  to 
come  down  ;  and  down  they  have  come." 

"  But  Kossuth  was  Governor — Dictator  !  Could  he  not 
command  the  advance  you  speak  of?" 

"  He  commanded  it  all  he  could,  but  was  not  obeyed.  Georgei 
had  already  sapped  his  influence,  by  poisoning  the  minds  of  the 
military  leaders  against  him — that  is,  the  factious  who  adhered 
to  himself,  the  old  regulars,  whom  he  had  set  against  the  new 
levies  and  Honveds.  '  Kossuth  is  not  a  soldier,  only  a  lawyer/ 
said  they ;  and  this  was  sufficient.  For  all  their  talk,  Kossuth 
has  given  more  proofs  of  soldiership  and  true  generalship  than 
Georgei  and  his  whole  clique.  He  has  put  an  army  of  two  hundred 
thousand  men  in  the  field ;  armed  and  equipped  it.  And  he 
created  it  absolutely  out  of  nothing  !  The  patriots  had  only  two 
hundred  pounds  weight  of  gunpowder,  and  scarce  such  a  thing  as 
a  gun,  when  this  rising  commenced.  And  the  saltpetre  was  dug 
out  of  the  mine,  and  the  iron  smelted,  and  the  cannon  cast 
Ay,  in  three  months  there  was  a  force  in  the  field  such  as 
Napoleon  would  have  been  proud  of.  My  dear  captain,  there 
is  more  proof  of  military  genius  in  this,  than  in  the  winning  of  a 
dozen  battles.  It  was  due  to  Kossuth  alone.  Alone  he  accom- 
plished it  all — every  detail  of  it  Louis  Kossuth  not  a  general 
indeed  !  In  the  true  sense  of  the  word,  there  has  been  none  such 
since  Napoleon.  Even  in  this  last  affair  of  Ofen,  it  is  now 
acknowledged,  he  was  right;  and  that  they  should  have  listened 
to  his  cry,  '  On  to  Vienna  ! ' " 

11  Clearly  it  has  been  a  sad  blunder." 

"  Not  so  clearly,  Captain ;  not  so  clearly.  I  wish  it  were. 
There  is  reason  to  fear  it  is  worse." 

"  What  mean  you,  Count  ?  ' 


Eljen  Kossuth!  139 


u  I  mean,  treason." 

"Ha!" 

"  The  turning  back  for  that  useless  siege  looks  confoundedly 
like  it.  And  this  constantly  retreating  down  the  right  bank  of  the 
Theiss,  without  crossing  over  and  forming  a  junction  with  Sandor. 
Every  dny  the  army  melting  away,  becoming  reduced  by  thousands! 
Sacre  I  if  it  be  so,  we've  had  our  long  journey  for  nothing ;  and 
poor  Liberty  will  soon  see  her  last  hopeless  struggle  on  the  plains 
of  the  Puszta,  perhaps  her  last  in  all  Europe  !     Ach  !  " 

The  Count,  as  he  made  this  exclamation,  drove  the  spur  hard 
against  the  ribs  of  his  horse,  and  broke  off  into  a  gallop,  as  if 
determined  to  take  part  in  that  struggle,  however  hopeless. 

The  younger  man,  seemingly  inspired  by  the  same  impulse, 
rode  rapidly  after. 

Then  gallop  was  kept  up  until  the  spire  of  Vilagos  came  in 
sight,  shooting  up  over  the  groves  of  olive  and  acacia  embowering 
the  Puszta  village. 

Outside  on  the  skirts  of  the  far-spreading  town  they  could  see 
tents  pitched  upon  the  plain,  with  standards  floating  over  them — 
cavalry  moving  about  in  squadrons— infantry  standing  in  serried 
ranks — here  and  there  horsemen  in  hussar  uniforms  hurrying  from 
point  to  point,  their  loose  dolmans  trailing  behind  them.  They 
could  hear  the  rolling  of  drums,  the  braying  of  bugles,  and,  away 
far  beyond,  the  booming  of  great  guns. 

"  Who  goes  there  ?  "  came  the  abrupt  hail  of  a  sentry  speaking 
in  the  Magyar  tongue,  while  a  soldier  in  Honved  dress  showed 
himself  in  the  door  of  a  shepherd's  hut.  He  was  the  spokesman 
of  a  picket-guard  concealed  within  the  house. 

"  Friends  !  "  answered  the  Austrian  Count,  in  the  same  language 
in  which  the  hail  had  been  given.  "  Friends  to  the  cause.  Eljen 
Kossuth /" 

At  the  magic  words  the  soldier  lowered  his  carbine,  while 
his  half-dozen  comrades  came  crowding  out  from  their  conceal- 
ment. 

A  pass  to  headquarters,  obtained  by  the  Count  in  Arad,  made 
the  parley  short,  and  the  two  travellers  continued  their  journey 
amidst  cries  of  "  Eljen  Kossuth  !  " 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

THE    BROKEN    SWORDS. 

In  half  an  hour  afterwards,  Count  Roseveldt  and  Captain  May- 
nard — for  it  was  they  who  were  thus  rapidly  travelling — reached 
Vilagos,  and  passed  on  to  the  camp  of  the  Hungarian  army. 

They  halted  near  its  centre,  iA  front  of  the  marquee  occupied 
by  its  commander-in-chief.  They  had  arrived  just  in  time  to 
witness  a  remarkable  scene — none  more  so  on  military  record. 

Around  them  were  officers  of  all  ranks,  and  of  every  conceivable 
arm  of  service.  They  were  standing  in  groups  talking  excitedly, 
now  and  then  an  individual  crossing  hastily  from  one  to  the  other. 

There  was  all  the  evidence  of  warlike  preparation,  but  as  if 
under  some  mysterious  restraint.  This  could  be  read  in  scowling 
looks  and  mutinous  mutterings. 

In  the  distance  was  heard  the  continuous  roaring  of  artillery. 

They  knew  whence  it  came,  and  what  was  causing  it.  They 
knew  it  was  from  Temesvar,  where  Nagy  Sandor,  with  his 
attenuated  corps  of  heroes,  was  holding  the  large  army  of  Riidiger 
in  check. 

Yes,  their  brilliant  and  beloved  comrade,  Nagy  Sandor,  that 
splendid  cavalry  officer — before  whom  even  the  beau  sabreur  of 
France  sinks  into  a  second  place  —was  righting  an  unequal  right  ! 

It  was  the  thought  of  this  that  was  causing  the  dark  looks  and 
angry  mutterings. 

Going  up  to  a  group  of  officers,  the  Count  asked  for  an  explana, 
tion.  They  were  in  hussar  uniforms,  and  appeared  to  be  more 
excited  than  the  others. 

One  of  them  sprang  forward,  and  grasped  him  by  the  hand, 
exclaiming : 

"  Roseveldt ! " 

It  was  an  old  comrade,  who  had  recognised  him. 

"  There's  some  ti  uuble  among  you  ? "  said  the  Count,  scarce 
staying  to  return  the  salutation.     rt  What  is  it,  my  dear  friend?" 


The  Broken  Swords. 


'•  You  hear  those  guns  ?  " 

"Of  course  I  do." 

"  It's  the  brave  Sandor  fighting  against  no  end  of  odds.  And 
this  scheming  chemist  won't  give  us  the  order  to  go  to  his  assis- 
tance. He  stays  inside  his  tent  like  some  Oracle  of  Delphi. 
Dumb,  too,  for  he  don't  make  a  response.  Would  you  believe  it 
Roseveldt ;  we  suspect  him  of  treason  ?  " 

"  If  you  do,"  responded  the  Count,  "  you're  great  fools  to  wait 
for  his  bringing  it  to  maturity.  You  should  advance  without  his 
orders.  For  my  part,  and  I  can  speak,  too,  for  my  comrade  here, 
I  shan't  stay  here,  while  there's  lighting  farther  on.  Our  cause  is 
the  same  as  yours ;  and  we've  come  several  thousand  miles  to 
draw  swords  in  it.  We  were  too  late  for  the  Baden  affair ;  and 
by  staying  here  with  you  we  may  again  get  disappointed.  Come, 
Maynard  !  We  have  no  business  at  Vilagos.  Let  us  go  on  to 
Temesvar ! " 

Saying  this,  the  Count  strode  brusquely  back  toward  his  horse, 
still  under  the  saddle,  the  captain  keeping  pace  with  him.  Before 
they  could  mount,  there  arose  a  scene  that  caused  them  to  stand 
by  their  stirrups,  holding  their  bridles  in  hand. 

The  hussar  officers,  among  whom  were  several  of  high* rank, 
generals  and  colonels,  had  overheard  the  speeches  of  Roseveldt, 
The  Count's  friend  had  made  them  acquainted  with  his  name. 

It  needed  not  for  them  to  know  his  title,  to  give  influence  to 
what  he  had  said.  His  words  were  like  red-hot  cinders  pitched 
into  a  barrel  of  gunpowder,  and  almost  as  instantaneous  was  the 
effect. 

"  Georgei  must  give  the  order  ! "  cried  one,  "  or  we  shall 
advance  without  it.     What  say  you,  comrades  ?  " 

"  We're  all  agreed  !  "  responded  a  score  of  voices,  the  speakers 
clutching  at  their  sword-hilts,  and  facing  toward  the  marquee  oi 
the  commander-in-chief. 

"  Listen  ! "  said  their  leader,  an  old  general,  with  steel-grey 
moustaches  sweeping  back  to  his  ears.  "  You  hear  that  ?  Those 
are  the  guns  of  Riidiger.  Too  well  do  I  know  their  accursed 
tongues.  Poor  Sandor's  ammunition  is  all  spent  He  must  be 
in  retreat  ! " 

"  We  shall  stop  it  1 "  simultaneously  exclaimed  a  dozen.     "  I-et 


142  The  Child   Wife. 


us  demand   the  order  to  advance  !  To  his  tent,  comrades  !  to  his 


tent 


1 1) 


There  could  be  no  mistaking  which  tent  ;  for,  with  the  cry 
still  continuing,  the  hussar  officers  rushed  toward  the  marquee — 
the  other  groups  pouring  in,  and  closing  around  it,  after  them. 

Several  rushed  inside  ;  their  entrance  succeeded  by  loud  words, 
in  tones  of  expostulation. 

They  came  out  again,  Georgei  close  following.  He  looked 
pale,  half-affrighted,  though  it  was  perhaps  less  fear  than  the  con- 
sciousness of  a  guilty  intent. 

He  had  still  sufficient  presence  of  mind  to  conceal  it. 

"  Comrades  ! "  he  said,  with  an  appealing  look  at  the  faces 
before  him,  "  my  children  !  Surely  you  can  trust  to  me  ?  Have 
I  not  risked  my  life  for  your  sake — for  the  sake  of  our  beloved 
Hungary  ?  I  tell  you  it  would  be  of  no  use  to  advance.  It 
would  be  madness,  ruin.  We  are  here  in  an  advantageous 
position.  We  must  stay  and  defend  it !  Believe  me,  'tis  our 
only  hope." 

The  speech  so  earnest — so  apparently  sincere — caused  the 
mutineers  to  waver.  Who  could  doubt  the  man,  so  compromised 
with  Austria? 

The  old  officer,  who  led  them,  did. 

"  Thus,  then  !  "  he  cried,  perceiving  their  defection.  "  Thus 
shall  I  defend  it!" 

Saying  this,  he  whipped  his  sabre  from  its  sheath ;  and  grasping 
it  hilt  and  blade,  he  broke  the  weapon  across  his  knee — flinging 
the  fragments  to  the  earth  ! 

It  was  the  friend  of  Roseveldt  who  did  this. 

The  example  was  followed  by  several  others,  amidst  curses  and 
tears.  Yes ;  strong  men,  old  soldiers,  heroes,  on  that  day,  at 
Vilagos,  were  seen  to  weep. 

The  Count  was  again  getting  into  his  stirrup,  when  a  shout, 
coming  from  the  outer  edge  of  the  encampment,  once  more 
caused  him  to  keep  still.  All  eyes  were  turned  toward  the 
sentry  who  had  shouted,  seeking  the  explanation.  It  was  given 
not  by  the  sentinel,  but  something  beyond. 

Far  off,  men  mounted  and  afoot  were  seen  approaching  over 
the  plain.     They  came  *mi  in  scattered  groups,  in  long  straggling 


The  Broken  Swords.  143 

line,  their  banners  borne  low  and  trailing.  They  were  the  debris 
of  that  devoted  band,  who  had  so  heroically  held  Temesvar, 
Their  gallant  leader  was  along  with  them,  in  the  rear-guard  still 
contesting  the  ground  by  inches,  against  the  pursuing  cavalry  of 
Rudigei  ! 

The  old  soldier  had  scarce  time  to  regret  having  broken  his 
sword,  when  the  van  swept  into  the  streets  of  Vilagos,  and  soon 
after  the  last  link  of  the  retreating  line. 

It  was  the  final  scene  in  the  struggle  for  Hungarian  inde- 
pendence ! 

No  ;  not  the  last  !  We  chronicle  without  thought.  There  was 
another — one  other  to  be  remembered  to  all  time,  and,  as  long  as 
there  be  hearts  to  feel,  with  a  sad,  painful  bitterness. 

I  am  not  writing  a  history  of  the  Hungarian  war — that  heroic 
struggle  for  national  independence — in  valour  and  devotedness 
perhaps  never  equalled  upon  the  earth.  Doing  so,  I  should  have 
to  detail  the  tricks  and  subterfuges  to  which  the  traitor  Georgei 
had  to  resort  before  he  could  deceive  his  betrayed  followers,  and, 
with  safety  to  himself,  deliver  them  over  to  the  infamous  enemy. 
I  speak  only  of  that  dread  morn — the  6th  day  of  October — when 
thirteen  general  officers,  every  one  of  them  the  victor  in  some 
sternly  contested  field,  were  strung  up  by  the  neck,  as  though 
they  had  been  pirates  or  murderers  ! 

And  among  them  was  the  brave  Damjanich,  strung  up  in  spite 
of  his  shattered  leg ;  the  silent,  serious  Perezel ;  the  noble 
Aulich ;  and,  perhaps  most  regretted  of  all,  the  brilliant  Nagy 
Sandor !  It  was  in  truth  a  terrible  taking  of  vengeance — a 
wholesale  hanging  of  heroes,  such  as  the  world  never  saw  before  ! 

What  a  contrast  between  this  fiendish  outpouring  of  monarchical 
spite  against  revolutionists  in  a  good  cause,  and  the  mercy  lately 
shown  by  republican  conquerors  to  the  chiefs  of  a  rebellion 
without  cause  at  all  / 

Maynard  and  Roseveldt  did  not  stay  to  be  spectators  of  this 
tragical  finale.  To  the  Count  there  was  danger  upon  Hungarian 
soil — once  more  become  Austrian — and  with  despondent  hearts 
the  two  revolutionary  leaders  turned  their  faces  towards  the  West, 
sad  to  think  that  their  swords  must  remain  unsheathed,  without 
tasting  the  blood  of  either  traitor  or  tyrant  I 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

A  TOUR   IN   SEARCH   OF   A  TITLE. 

*  I'm  sick  of  England— I  am  !  " 

"  Why,  cousin,  you  said  the  same  of  America  !  * 

"  No  ;  only  of  Newport.  And  if  I  did,  what  matter  ?  I  wish 
I  were  back  in  it.  Anywhere  but  here,  among  these  bulls  and 
bull-dogs.     Give  me  New  York  over  all  cities  in  the  world." 

"  Oh  !  I  agree  with  you  there — that  do  I — both  State  and  city, 
if  you  like." 

It  was  Julia  Girdwood  that  spoke  first,  and  Cornelia  Inskip 
who  replied. 

They  were  seated  in  a  handsome  apartment — one  of  a  suite  in 
the  Clarendon  Hotel,  London. 

"  Yes,"  pursued  the  first  speaker ;  "  there  one  has  at  least  some 
society ;  if  not  the  elite^  still  sufficiently  polished  for  companion- 
ship. Here  there  is  none — absolutely  none — outside  the  circle 
of  the  aristocracy.  Those  merchants'  wives  and  daughters  we've 
been  compelled  to  associate  with,  rich  as  they  are,  and  grand  as 
they  deem  themselves,  are  to  me  simply  insufferable.  They  can 
think  of  nothing  but  their  Queen." 

"  That's  true." 

"  And  I  tell  you,  Cornelia,  if  a  peeress,  or  the  most  obscure 
thing  with  '  Lady'  tacked  to  her  name,  but  bows  to  one  of  them,  it 
is  remembered  throughout  their  life,  and  talked  of  every  day 
unong  their  connections.  Only  think  of  that  old  banker  where 
mamma  took  us  to  dine  the  other  day.  He  had  one  of  the 
Queen's  slippers  framed  in  a  glass  case,  and  placed  conspicuously 
upon  his  drawing-room  mantelshelf.  And  with  what  gusto  the 
old  snob  descanted  upon  it !  How  he  came  to  get  possession  of 
it ;  the  price  he  paid ;  and  his  exquisite  self-gratulation  at  being 
able  to  leave  it  as  a  valued  heirloom  to  his  children — snobbish  as 
himself  1     Faugh  1    'Tis  a  flunkeyism  intolerable.    Among  Amen- 


A   Tour  in  Search  of  a  Title.  145 


can  merchants,  one  is  at  least  spared  such  experience  as  that 
Even  our  humblest  shopkeepers  would  scorn  so  to  exhibit  them- 
selves ! " 

"  True,  true  !  "  assented  Cornelia  ;  who  remembered  her  own 
father,  an  humble  shopkeeper  in  Poughkeepsie,  and  knew  that 
he  would  have  scorned  it. 

"  Yes,"  continued  Julia,  returning  to  her  original  theme,  "  0/ 
all  cities  in  the  world,  give  me  New  York.  I  can  say  of  it,  as 
Byron  did  of  England,  '  With  all  thy  faults,  I  love  thee  still ! ' 
though  I  suspect  when  the  great  poet  penned  that  much-quoted 
line,  he  must  have  been  very  tired  of  Italy  and  the  stupid 
Countess  Guiccioli^ 

"  Ha — ha — ha  !  "  laughed  the  Poughkeepsian  cousin,  "  what  a 
girl  you  are,  Julia  !  Well,  I'm  glad  you  like  our  dear  native  New 
York." 

"  Who  wouldn't,  with  its  gay,  pleasant  people,  and  their  cheer- 
ful give  and  take?  Many  faults  it  has,  I  admit;  bad  municipal 
management — wholesale  political  corruption.  These  are  but  spots 
on  the  outward  skin  of  its  social  life,  and  will  one  day  be  cured. 
Its  great,  generous  heart,  sprung  from  Hibernia,  is  still  uncon- 
taminated." 

"  Hurrah  !  hurrah  ! "  cried  Cornelia,  springing  up  from  her  seat 
and  clapping  her  little  hands.  "  I'm  glad,  cousin,  to  hear  you 
speak  thus  of  the  Irish  ! " 

It  will  be  remembered  that  she  was  the  daughter  of  one. 

"  Yes,"  said  Julia,  for  the  third  time ;  "  New  York,  of  all 
places,  for  me  !  I'm  now  convinced  it's  the  finest  city  in  the 
world ! " 

"  Don't  be  so  quick  in  your  conclusions,  my  love  !  Wait  till 
you've  seen  Paris  !     Perhaps  you  may  change  your  mind  ! " 

It  was  Mrs.  Girdvvood  who  made  these  remarks,  entering  the 
room  at  the  conclusion  of  her  daughter's  rhapsody. 

"  I'm  sure  I  won't  mother.  Nor  you  neither.  We'll  find  Paris 
just  as  we've  found  London ;  the  same  selfishness,  the  same 
social  distinctions,  the  same  flunkeyism.  I've  no  doubt  all 
monarchical  countries  are  alike." 

"What  are  you  talking  about,  child?  France  is  now  a 
republic." 

% 


146  The  Child   Wife. 


"A  nice  republic,  with  an  Emperor's  nephew  for  its  President 
— or  rather  its  Dictator !  Every  day,  as  the  papers  tell  us,  rob- 
bing the  people  of  their  rights  !  " 

"Well,  my  daughter,  with  that  we've  got  nothing  to  do.  No 
doubt  these  revolutionary  hot-heads  need  taming  down  a  little, 
and  a  Napoleon  should  be  the  man  to  do  it.  I'm  sure  we'll  find 
Paris  a  very  pleasant  place.  The  old  titled  families,  so  far  from 
being  swept  off  by  the  late  revolution,  are  once  more  holding  up 
their  heads.  Tis  said  the  new  ruler  encourages  them.  We 
can't  fail  to  get  acquainted  with  some  of  them.  It's  altogether 
different  from  the  cold-blooded  aristocracy  of  England." 

The  last  remark  was  made  in  a  tone  of  bitterness.  Mrs.  Gird- 
wood  had  been  now  several  months  in  London;  and  though 
stopping  at  the  Clarendon  Hotel — the  caravanserai  of  aristocratic 
travellers— she  had  failed  to  get  introduction  to  the  titled  of  the 
land. 

The  American  Embassy  had  been  polite  to  her,  both  Minister 
and  Secretary — the  latter,  noted  for  his  urbanity  to  all,  but  es- 
pecially to  his  own  countrymen,  or  countrywomen,  without 
distinction  of  class.  The  Embassy  had  done  all  that  could  be 
one  for  an  American  lady  travelling  without  introductions.  But, 
however  rich  and  accomplished,  however  beautiful  the  two  girls 
in  her  train,  Mrs.  Girdwood  could  not  be  presented  at  Court,  her 
antecedents  not  being  known. 

It  is  true  a  point  might  have  been  strained  in  her  favour ;  but 
the  American  ambassador  of  that  day  was  as  true  a  toadeater  to 
England's  aristocracy  as  could  have  been  found  in  England  itself, 
and  equally  fearful  of  becoming  compromised  by  his  introductions 

We  need  not  give  his  name.  The  reader  skilful  in  diplomatic 
records  can  no  doubt  guess  it. 

Under  these  circumstances,  the  ambitious  widow  had  to  submit 
to  a  disappointment. 

She  found  little  difficulty  in  obtaining  introductions  to  England's 
commonalty.  Her  riches  secured  th;s.  But  the  gentry  !  these 
were  even  less  accessible  than  the  exclusives  of  Newport — the 
J.'s,  and  the  L.'s,  and  the  B.'s.  Titled  or  untitled,  they  were  all 
the  same.  She  discovered  that  a  simple  country  squire  was  as 
unapproachable  as  a  peer  of  the  realm — earl,  marquis,  or  duke  1 


A  Tour  in  Search  of  a  Title.  147 

"Never  mind,  my  girls  1"  was  her  consolatory  speech,  to 
daughter  and  niece,  when  the  scales  first  fell  from  her  eyes. 
"  His  lordship  will  soon  be  here,  and  then  it  will  be  all  right." 

His  lordship  meant  Mr.  Swinton,  who  had  promised  to  follow 
them  in  the  "  next  steamaw." 

But  the  next  steamer  came  with  no  such  name  as  Swinton  on 
its  passenger  list,  nor  any  one  bearing  the  title  of  "  lord." 

And  the  next,  and  the  next,  and  some  half-dozen  others,  and 
still  no  Swinton,  either  reported  by  the  papers,  or  calling  at  the 
Clarendon  Hotel ! 

Could  an  accident  have  happened  to  the  nobleman,  travelling 
incognito  ?  Or,  what  caused  more  chagrin  to  Mrs.  Gird  wood  to 
conjecture,  had  he  forgotten  his  promise  ? 

In  either  case  he  ought  to  have  written.  A  gentleman  would 
have  done  so — unless  dead. 

But  no  such  death  had  been  chronicled  in  the  newspapers.  It 
could  not  have  escaped  the  notice  of  the  retail  storekeeper's 
widow,  who  each  day  read  the  London  Times,  and  with  care  its 
list  of  arrivals. 

She  became  at  length  convinced,  that  the  accomplished  noble- 
man accidentally  picked  up  in  Newport,  and  afterwards  entertained 
by  her  in  her  Fifth  Avenue  house  in  New  York,  was  either  no 
nobleman  at  all,  or  if  one,  had  returned  to  his  own  country  under 
another  travelling  name,  and  was  there  fighting  shy  of  her 
acquaintance. 

It  was  but  poor  comfort  that  many  of  her  countrymen — 
travellers  like  themselves — every  day  called  upon  them ;  among 
others  Messrs.  Lucas  and  Spiller — such  was  the  cognomen  of  Mr. 
Lucas's  friend,  who,  also  on  a  tour  of  travel,  had  lately  arrived  in 
England. 

But  neither  of  them  had  brought  any  intelligence,  such  as  Mrs. 
Girdwood  sought.  Neither  knew  anything  of  the  whereabouts  of 
Mr.  Swinton. 

They  had  not  seen  him  since  the  occasion  of  that  dinner  in  th*> 
Fifth  Avenue  house  ;  nor  had  they  heard  of  him  again. 

It  was  pretty  clear  then  he  had  come  to  England,  and 
M  cutting  "  them — that  is,  Mrs.  Girdwood  and  her  girls. 

This  was  t  eflection. 


I4«  The  Child  Wife. 


The  thought  was  enough  to  drive  her  out  of  the  country ;  and 
4ut  of  it  she  determined  to  go,  partly  in  search  of  that  title  for 
her  daughter  she  had  come  to  Europe  to  obtain  ;  and  partly  to 
complete,  what  some  of  her  countrymen  are  pleased  to  call,  the 
**Ewr6pean  tower." 

To  this  the  daughter  was  indifferent,  while  the  niece  of  course 
*aade  no  objection. 

They  proceeded  upon  their  travels. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

THE   LOST   LORD. 

Toy  days  after  Mrs.  Girdwood  had  taken  her  departure  from  the 
Clarendon  Hotel,  a  gentleman  presented  himself  to  the  doof- 
porter  of  that  select  hostelry,  and  put  the  following  inquiry : 

"  Is  there  a  family  stopping  here,  by  name  Girdwood — a  middle- 
aged  lady,  with  two  younger — her  daughter  and  niece ;  a  negro 
woman  for  their  servant  ?  " 

u  There  was  such  a  fambly — about  two  weeks  ago.  They've 
paid  their  bill,  and  gone  away." 

The  janitor  laid  emphasis  on  the  paying  of  the  bill.  It  was  his 
best  evidence  of  the  respectability  of  the  departed  guests. 

"  Do  you  know  where  they've  gone  ?  " 

"  Haven't  an  idea,  sir.  They  left  no  address.  They  'pear  to 
be  Yankees — 'Mericans,  I  mean,"  said  the  man,  correcting  him- 
sen,  m  fear  of  giving  offence.  "  Very  respectable  people — ladies, 
indeed — 'specially  the  young  'uns.  I  dare  say  they've  gone  back 
to  the  States.     That's  what  I've  heerd  them  call  their  country." 

"  To  the  States  !  Surely  not  ? "  said  the  stranger,  half  ques- 
tioning himself.     "  How  long  since  they  left  the  hotel  ?  " 

"  About  a  fortnight  ago — there  or  thereabout  I  can  look  %% 
he  book  and  tell  you  !  " 

"  Pray  do  !  " 

The  Cerberus  of  the  Clarendon — *o  an  humble  applicant  for 
admission  into  that  aristocratic  establishment  not  much  milder 
than  he  N"  *he  seven  heads — turned  into  his  box,  and  commenced 
examinhg  *he  register  of  departures. 

He  was  influenced  to  this  civility  by  the  aspect  of  the  indi- 
vidual who  made  the  request.  To  all  appearance  a  "reg'lar 
gentleman,"  was  the  reflection  he  had  indulged  in. 

"  Departures  on  the  25th,"  spoke  he,  reading  from  the  register : 
"  Lord  S and  Lady  S ;  the  Hon.  Augustus  Stanton ;  the 


150  The  Child  Wife. 


Duchess  of  P ;   Mrs.   Girdwood   and  fambly — that's  them. 

They  left  on  the  25th,  sir." 

"The  25th.     At  what  hour?" 

"  Well,  that  I  can't  remember.  You  see,  there's  so  many  goin' 
and  comin'.  From  their  name  being  high  up  on  the  list,  I  d'sar 
they  went  by  a  mornin'  train." 

"You're  sure  they  left  no  note  for  any  one?" 

"  I  can  ask  inside.     What  name  ?  " 

"Swinton — Mr.  Richard  Swinton." 

"Seems  to  me  they  inquired  for  that  name,  several  timet 
Yes,  the  old  lady  did — the  mother  of  the  young  ladies,  I  mean 
I'll  see  if  there's  a  note." 

The  man  slippered  off  towards  the  office,  in  the  interior  of  the 
hotel ;  leaving  Mr.  Swinton,  for  it  was  he,  upon  the  door-mat. 

The  countenance  of  the  ex-guardsman,  that  had  turned  suddenly 
blank,  again  brightened  up.  It  was  at  least  gratifying  to  know 
that  he  had  been  inquired  for.  It  was  to  be  hoped  there  was  a 
note,  that  would  put  him  on  their  trace  of  travel. 

"  No,  not  any,"  was  the  chilling  response  that  came  out  from 
the  official  oracle.     "  None  whatever." 

"  You  say  they  made  inquiries  for  a  Mr.  Swinton.  Was  it  from 
yourself,  may  I  ask  ?  "  The  question  was  put  seductively,  accom- 
panied by  the  holding  out  of  a  cigar-case. 

"  Thank  you,  sir,"  said  the  flattered  official,  accepting  the 
offered  weed.  "  The  inquiries  were  sent  down  to  me  from  their 
rooms.  It  was  to  ask  if  a  Mr.  Swinton  had  called,  or  left  any 
card.  They  also  asked  about  a  lord.  They  didn't  give  his 
name.     There  wasn't  any  lord — leastwise  not  for  them." 

"Were  there  any  gentlemen  in  the  habit  of  visiting  them? 
You'll  rind  that  cigar  a  good  one — I've  just  brought  them  across 
the  Atlantic  Take  another  ?  Such  weeds  are  rather  scarce  here 
in  London.* 

11  You're  very  kind,  sir.  Thank  you  !  "  and  the  official  helped 
himself  to  a  secon* 

"Oh,   yes;  there  *vere  several  gentlemen  used  to  come  to  see 
them.     I   don't  think   any  of  them  were    lords,    though.     They 
u  igb:  be.     The  ladies  'peared  to  be  very  respectable  people      I 
s.  y  highly  respectable." 


The  Lost  Lord.  15  f 


"  Do  you  know  the  address  of  any  of  these  gentlemen  ?  I  ask 
the  question  because  the  ladies  are  relatives  of  mine,  and  I  might 
perhaps  find  out  from  some  of  them  where  they  are  gone." 

"  They  were  all  strangers  to  me  ;  and  to  the  hotel.  I've  been 
at  this  door  for  ten  years,  and  never  saw  one  of  them  before." 

11  Can  you  recollect  how  any  of  them  looked  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  there  was  one  who  came  often,  and  used  to  go  out  with 
the  ladies.  A  thick-set  gent  with  lightish  hair,  and  round  full 
face.  Sometimes  there  was  a  thin- faced  man  along  with  him,  a 
younger  gent.  They  used  to  take  the  two  young  ladies  a-ridin'— 
to  Rotten  Row ;  and  I  thitjk  to  the  Opera." 

11  Did  you  learn  their  names  ?  " 

"No,  sir.  They  used  to  go  and  come  without  giving  a  card; 
only  the  first  time,  and  I  didn't  notice  what  name  was  on  it 
They  would  ask  if  Mrs.  Girdwood  was  in,  and  then  go  upstairs  to 
the  suite  of  rooms  occupied  by  the  fambl^y.  They  'peared  to  be 
intimate  friends." 

Svvinton  saw  he  had  got  all  the  information  the  man  was  capable 
of  imparting.  He  turned  to  go  out,  the  hall-keeper  obsequiously 
holding  the  door. 

Another  question  occurred  to  him. 

"  Did  Mrs,  Girdwood  say  anything  about  coming  back  here- 
to the  hotel  I  mean  ?  " 

''  I  don't  know,  sir.     If  you  stop  a  minute  111  ask." 

Another  journey  to  the  oracle  inside;  another  negative  re- 
sponse. 

•'  This  is  cursed  luck  ! "  hissed  Swinton  through  his  teeth,  as 
lie  descended  the  hotel  steps  and  stood  upon  the  flags  below. 
"  Cursed  luck  ! "  he  repeated,  as  with  despondent  look  and  slow, 
irresolute  tread  he  turned  up  the  street  of  "our  best  shop- 
keepers." 

"  Lucas  with  them  to  a  certainty,  and  that  other  squirt !  1 
might  have  known  it,  from  their  leaving  New  York  without 
telling  me  where  they  were  going.  They  must  have  followed  by 
the  very  next  steamer;  and,  hang  me,  if  I  don't  begin  to  think 
that  that  visit  to  the  gambling-house  was  a  trap — a  preconceived 
plan  to  deprive  me  of  the  cnance  of  getting  over  after  her.  By 
the  living  G it  has  succeeded !     Here  I  am,  after  laontns 


i«,2  The  Child  Wife, 


spent  in  struggling  to  make  up  the  paltry  passage  money  !  And 
here  they  are  not ;  and  God  knows  where  they  are  !  Curse  upon 
the  crooked  luck  !  " 

Mr.  S  win  ton's  reflections  will  explain  why  he  had  not  sooner 
reported  himself  at  the  Bond  Street  hotel,  and  show  the  mistake 
Mrs.  Girdwood  had  made,  in  supposing  he  had  "  cut "  them. 

The  thousand  dollars  deposited  in  the  New  York  faro  bank 
was  all  the  money  he  had  in  the  world ;  and  after  taking  stock  of 
what  might  be  raised  upon  his  wife's  jewellery,  most  of  which  was 
already  under  the  collateral  mortgage  of  the  three  golden  globes, 
it  was  found  it  would  only  pay  ocean  passage  for  one. 

As  Fan  was  determined  not  to  be  left  behind — Broadway 
having  proved  less  congenial  than  Regent  Street — the  two  had  to 
stay  in  America,  till  the  price  of  two  cabin  tickets  could  be 
obtained. 

With  all  Mr.  Swinton's  talent  in  the  "  manipulation  of  paste- 
board," it  cost  him  months  to  obtain  them. 

His  friend  Lucas  gone  away,  he  found  no  more  pigeons  in 
America — only  hawks  ! 

The  land  of  liberty  was  not  the  land  for  him.  Its  bird  of  free- 
dom, type  of  the  falcon  tribe,  seemed  too  truly  emblematic  of  its 
people — certainly  of  those  with  whom  he  had  come  in  contact — 
and  as  soon  as  he  could  get  together  enough  to  pay  for  a  pair  of 
Cunard  tickets — second  class  at  that — he  took  departure  for  a 
clime  more  congenial,  both  to  himself  and  his  beloved. 

They  had  arrived  in  London  with  little  more  than  the  clothes 
they  stood  in ;  and  taken  lodgings  in  that  cheap,  semi-genteel 
neighbourhood  where  almost  every  street,  square,  park,  place,  and 
terrace,  has  got  Westbourne  for  its  name. 

Toward  this  quarter  Mr.  Swinton  turned  his  face,  after  reaching 
the  head  of  Bond  Street;  and  taking  a  twopenny  "bus,"  he  was 
soon  after  set  down  at  the  Royal  Oak,  at  no  great  distance  from 
his  suburban  domicile. 


"  They're  gone  1 "  he  exclaimed,  stepping  inside  the  late  taken 
apartments,  and  addressing  himself  to  a  beautiful  woman,  their 
>joie  occupant 


The  Lost  Lord.  153 


It  was  "Fan,"  in  a  silk  gown,  somewhat  chafed  and  stained, 
but  once  more  a  woman's  dress  !  Fan,  with  her  splendid  hair 
almost  grown  again— Fan  no  longer  disguised  as  a  valet,  but 
restored  to  the  dignity  of  a  wife  ! 

"  Gone  !     From  London,  do  you  mean  ?     Or  only  the  hotel  ? " 

The  question  told  of  her  being  still  in  her  husband's  confi- 
dence. 

"  From  both." 

"  But  you  know  where,  don't  you  ?  * 

"  I  don't." 

"  Do  you  think  they've  left  England  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  what  to  think.,  They've  left  the  Clarendon  on 
the  25th  of  last  month— ten  days  ago.  And  who  do  you  sup- 
pose has  been  there — back  and  forward  to  see  them  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know." 

"Guess!" 

"  I  can't." 

She  could  have  given  a  guess.  She  had  a  thought,  but  she 
kept  it  in  her  own  heart,  as  about  the  same  man  she  had  kept 
other  thoughts  before.  Had  she  spoken  it,  she  would  have  said, 
14  Maynard." 

She  said  nothing,  leaving  her  husband  to  explain. 

He  did  so,  at  once  undeceiving  her. 

"Well,  it  was  Lucas.  That  thick-skulled  brute  we  met  in 
Newport,  and  afterwards  in  New  York." 

u  Aye ;  better  you  had  never  seen  him  in  either  place.  He 
proved  a  useless  companion,  Dick." 

11 1  know  all  that     Perhaps  I  shall  get  square  with  him  yet." 

"  So  they've  gone ;  and  that,  I  suppose,  will  be  the  end  of  it 
Well,  let  it  be  ;  I  don't  care.  I'm  contented  enough  to  be  once 
more  in  dear  old  England  ! " 

"  In  cheap  lodgings  like  this  ?  " 

"  In  anything.  A  hovel  here  is  preferable  to  a  palace  in 
America  !  I'd  rather  live  in  a  London  garret,  in  these  mean 
lodgings,  if  you  like,  than  be  mistress  of  that  Fifth  Avenue 
house  you  were  so  delighted  to  dine  in.  I  hate  their  republican 
country  1 " 

The  sentiment  was  appropriate  to  the  woman  who  uttered  it 


154  The  Child  Wife- 


"  I'll  be  the  owner  of  it  yet,"  said  Swinton,  referring  not  to  the 
country,  but  the  Fifth  Avenue  house.  "  I'll  own  it,  if  I  have  to 
spend  ten  years  in  carrying  out  the  speculation." 

"  You  still  intend  going  on  with  it  then  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I  do.     Why  should  I  give  it  up  ?  n 

"  Perhaps  you've  lost  the  chance.  This  Mr.  Lucas  may  have 
got  into  the  lady's  good  graces?" 

"  Bah  !  I've  nothing  to  fear  from  him — the  common  looking 
brute  !  He's  after  her,  no  doubt.  What  of  that?  I  take  it  he's 
not  the  style  to  make  much  way  with  Miss  Julia  Girdwood. 
Besides,  I've  reason  to  know  the  mother  won't  have  it.  If  I've 
lost  the  chance  in  any  other  way,  I  may  thank  you  for  it,  madam." 

"  Me  !     And  how,  I  should  like  to  know  ?  " 

"  But  for  you  I  might  have  been  here  months  ago ;  in  good 
time  to  have  taken  steps  against  their  departure  ;  or,  still  better, 
found  some  excuse  for  going  along  with  them.  That's  what  I 
could  have  done.  It's  the  time  we  have  lost — in  getting  together 
the  cash  to  buy  tickets  for  two." 

"Indeed  !  And  I'm  answerable  for  that,  I  suppose?  I  think 
I  made  up  my  share.  You  seem  to  forget  the  selling  of  my  gold 
watch,  my  rings  and  bracelets — even  to  my  poor  pencil-case  ! " 

"  Who  gave  them  to  you  ?  " 

"Indeed  !  it's  like  you  to  remember  it !  I  wish  I  had  nevei 
accepted  them." 

"  And  I  that  I  had  never  given  them." 

"Wretch!" 

"  Oh  !  you're  very  good  at  calling  names — ugly  ones,  too." 

"  I'll  call  you  an  uglier  still,  coward  !  " 

This  stung  him.  Perhaps  the  only  epithet  that  would ;  for  he 
not  only  felt  that  it  was  true,  but  that  his  wife  knew  it. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  he  asked,  turning  suddenly  red. 

"  What  I  say  ;  that  you're  a  coward— you  know  you  are.  You 
can  safely  insult  a  woman ;  but  when  a  man  stands  up  you  daren't 
— no,  you  daren't  say  bo  to  a  goose.     Remember  Maynard  ! " 

It  was  the  first  time  the  taunt  had  been  openly  pronounced ; 
though  on  more  than  one  occasion  since  the  scenes  in  Newport, 
she  had  thrown  out  hints  of  a  knowledge  of  that  scheme  by  which 
he  had  avoided  meeting  the  man  named.     He  supposed  she  had 


The  Lost  Lord.  155 


only  suspicions,  and  could  know  nothing  of  that  letter  delivered  too 
late.  He  had  taken  great  pains  to  conceal  the  circumstances. 
From  what  she  now  said,  it  was  evident  she  knew  all. 

And  she  did ;  for  James,  the  waiter,  and  other  servants,  had 
imparted  to  her  the  gossip  of  the  hotel;  and  this,  joined  to  her 
own  observation  of  what  had  transpired,  gave  the  whole  story. 
The  suspicion  that  she  knew  it  had  troubled  Swinton — the  cer- 
tainty maddened  him. 

"  Say  that  again ! "  he  cried,  springing  to  his  feet ;  "  say  it 
again,  and  by  G — ,  I'll  smash  in  your  skull !  " 

With  the  threat  he  had  raised  one  of  the  cane  chairs,  and  held 
it  over  her  head. 

Throughout  their  oft-repeated  quarrels,  it  had  never  before 
come  to  this — the  crisis  of  a  threatened  blow. 

She  was  neither  large  nor  strong— only  beautiful— while  the 
bully  was  both.  But  she  did  not  believe  he  intended  to  strike ; 
and  she  felt  that  to  quail  would  be  to  acknowledge  herself  con- 
quered.    Even  to  fail  replying  to  the  defiance. 

She  did  so,  with  additional  acerbity. 

"  Say  what  again  ?  Remember  Maynard  ?  I  needn't  say  it ; 
you're  not  likely  to  forget  him  ! " 

The  words  had  scarce  passed  from  her  lips  before  she  regretted 
them.  At  least  she  had  reason  :  for  with  a  crash,  the  chair  came 
down  upon  her  head,  and  she  was  struck  prostrate  upon  the 
floor) 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

INSIDE   THE   TUILERIES. 

There  is  a  day  m  the  annals  of  Paris,  that  to  the  limits  of  all 
time  will  be  remembered  with  shame,  sorrow,  and  indignation. 

And  not  only  by  the  people  of  Paris,  but  of  France — who  on 
that  day  ceased  to  be  free. 

To  the  Parisians,  more  especially,  was  it  a  day  of  lamentation ; 
and  its  anniversary  can  never  pass  over  the  French  capital  with- 
out tears  in  every  house,  and  trembling  in  every  heart. 

It  was  the  Second  of  Dece??iberi  185 1. 

On  the  morning  of  that  day  five  men  were  met  within  a 
chamber  of  the  Tuileries.  It  was  the  same  chamber  in  which 
we  have  described  a  conspiracy  as  having  been  hatched  some 
months  before. 

The  present  meeting  was  for  a  similar  purpose ;  but,  notwith 
standing  a  coincidence  in  the  number  of  the  conspirators,  only 
one  of  them  was  the  same.  This  was  the  president  of  the  former 
conclave — the  President  of  France  ! 

And  there  was  another  coincidence  equally  strange — in  then 
titles ;  for  there  was  a  count,  a  field-marshal,  a  diplomatist,  and  a 
duke,  the  only  difference  being  that  they  were  now  all  of  one 
nation — all  Frenchmen. 

They  were  the  Count  de  M.,  the  Marshal  St.  A.,  the  Diploma- 
tist La  G.,  and  the  Duke  of  C. 

Although,  as  said,  their  purpose  was  very  similar,  there  was  a 
great  difference  in  the  men  and  their  mode  of  discussing  it  The 
former  five  have  been  assimilated  to  a  gang  of  burglars  who  had 
settled  the  preliminaries  for  "  cracking  a  crib."  Better  might  this 
description  apply  to  the  conspirators  now  in  session  ;  and  at  a 
still  later  period,  when  the  housebreakers  are  about  entering  on 
the  "job" 

Those  had  conspired  with  a  more  comprehensive  design — the 

i<6 


Inside  tht  Tuileries.  157 

destruction  of  Liberty  throughout  all  Europe.  These  were  assem- 
bled with  similar  aim,  though  it  was  confined  to  the  liberties  of 
France. 

In  the  former  case,  the  development  seemed  distant,  and  would 
be  brought  about  by  brave  soldiers  fighting  on  the  battle-field. 
In  the  latter  the  action  was  near,  and  was  entrusted  to  cowardly 
assassins  in  the  streets,  already  prepared  for  the  purpose. 

The  mode  by  which  this  had  been  done  will  be  made  manifest, 
by  giving  an  account  of  the  scenes  that  were  passing  in  the 
chambers  occupied  by  the  conspirators. 

There  was  no  persiflage  of  speech,  or  exchange  of  light  drol- 
leries, as  in  that  conclave  enlivened  by  the  conversation  of  the 
English  viscount  The  time  was  too  serious  for  joking ;  the 
occasion  for  the  contemplated  murder  too  near. 

Nor  was  there  the  same  tranquillity  in  the  chamber.  Men 
rame  and  went ;  officers  armed  and  in  full  uniform.  Generals, 
colonels,  and  captains  were  admitted  into  the  room,  as  if  by  some 
sign  of  freemasonry,  but  only  to  make  reports  or  receive  orders, 
and  then  out  again. 

And  he  who  gave  these  orders  was  not  the  President  of  France, 
commander-in-chief  of  its  armies,  but  another  man  of  the  five  in 
that  room,  and  for  the  time  greater  than  he  1 

It  was  the  Count  de  M . 

But  for  him,  perhaps,  that  conspiracy  might  never  have  been 
carried  to  a  success,  and  France  might  still  have  been  free ! 

It  was  a  strange,  terrible  crisis,  and  the  "man  of  a  mission," 
standing  back  to  the  fire,  with  split  coat-tails,  was  partially 
appalled  by  it  Despite  repeated  drinks,  and  the  constant  smoking 
of  a  cigar,  he  could  not  conceal  the  tremor  that  was  upon  him. 

De  M saw  it,  and  so  did  the  murderer  of  Algerine  Arabs, 

once  strolling-player,  now  field-marshal  of  France. 

"  Come  !  "  cried  the  sinful  but  courageous  Count,  "  there  must 
be  no  half  measures — no  weak  backslidings  1  We've  resolved 
upon  this  thing,  and  we  must  go  through  with  it  1  Which  of  you 
is  afraid  ?  " 

"  Not  I,"  answered  St  A . 

"  Nor  I,"  said  La  G ,  ci-devant  billiard-sharper  of  Leicester 

Square,  London, 


158  The  Child  Wife. 


"  I'm  not  afraid,"  said  the  Duke.     "  But  do  you  think  it  u 

fight?" 

His  grace  was  the  only  man  of  the  five  who  had  a  spark  of 
humanity  in  his  heart.  A  poor  weak  man,  he  was  only  allied 
with  the  others  in  the  intimacy  of  a  fast  friendship. 

"  Right  ?  "  echoed  La  G .     "  What's  wrong  in  it  ?     Would 

it  be  right  to  let  this  canaille,  of  demagogues  rule  Paris — France? 
That's  what  it'll  come  to  if  we  don't  act.     Now,  or  never,  say  I ! " 

"  And  I  !  " 

"  And  all  of  us  !  " 

"We   must   do   more   than   say,"  said   De   M ,  glancing 

toward  the  tamer  of  the  Boulogne  eagle,  who  still  stood  against 
the  fire-place,  looking  scared  and  irresolute.  "  We  must  swear 
it!" 

"  Come,  Louis  ! "  he  continued,  familiarly  addressing  himself 
to  the  Prince-President.  "  We're  all  in  the  same  boat  here.  It's 
a  case  of  life  or  death,  and  we  must  stand  true  to  one  another. 
I  propose  that  we  swear  it !  " 

"I  have  no  objection,"  said  the  nephew  of  Napoleon,  led  on 
by  a  man  whom  his  great  uncle  would  have  commanded.  "  111 
make  any  oath  you  like." 

"  Enough  ! "    cried    De    M ,    taking   a   brace   of  duelling 

pistols  from  the  mantelshelf  and  placing  them  crosswise  on  the 
table,  one  on  top  of  the  other.  "  There,  gentlemen  !  There's 
the  true  Christian  symbol,  and  over  it  let  us  make  oath,  that  in 
this  day's  work  we  live  or  die  together  1 " 

"  We  swear  it  on  the  Cross  ! " 

"  On  the  Cross,  and  by  the  Virgin  1  * 

M  On  the  Cross,  and  by  the  Virgin  !  * 

"The  oath  had  scarce  died  on  their  lips  when  the  door  was 
once  more  opened,  introducing  one  of  those  uniformed  couriers 
who  were  constantly  coming  and  going. 

They  were  all  officers  of  high  rank,  and  all  men  with  fearless 
but  sinister  faces. 

"Well,  Colonel  Gardotte!"  asked  De  M ,  without  waiting 

for  the  President  to  speak;  "how  are  things  going  on  in  the 
Boulevard  de  Bastille  ?  " 

"  Charmingly,"   replied    the    Colonel.      "Another    round    o/ 


Inside  the  Tuileries.  159 


champagne,  and  my  fellows  will  be  in  the  right  spirit — ready  for 
anything  !  M 

"  Give  it  them  !  Twice  if  it  be  needed.  Here's  the  equivalent 
for  the  keepers  of  the  cabarets.  If  there's  not  enough,  take  their 
trash  on  a  promise  to  pay.  Say  that  it's  on  account  of — Ha ! 
Lorrillard ! " 

Colonel  Gardotte,  in  brilliant  Zouave  uniform,  was  forgotten, 
or  at  all  events  set  aside,  for  a  big,  bearded  man  in  dirty  blouse, 
at  that  moment  admitted  into  the  room. 

"  What  is  it,  mon  brave  ?  " 

"  I  come  to  know  at  what  hour  we  are  to  commence  firing 
from  the  barricade  ?  It's  built  now,  and  we're  waiting  for  the 
signal  ?  " 

Lorrillard  spoke  half  aside,  and  in  a  hoarse,  hurried  whisper. 

"  Be  patient,  good  Lorrillard  ! "  was  the  reply.  "  Give  your 
fellows  another  glass,  and  wait  till  you  hear  a  cannon  fired  in 
front  of  the  Madeleine.  Take  care  you  don't  get  so  drunk  as  to 
be  incapable'  of  hearing  it.  Also,  take  care  you  don't  shoot  any 
of  the  soldiers  who  are  to  attack  you,  or  let  them  shoot  you  ! " 

"  I'll  take  special  care  about  the  last,  your  countship.  A 
cannon,  you  say,  will  be  fired  by  the  Madeleine  ?" 

"  Yes ;  discharged  twice  to  make  sure — but  you  needn't  wait 
for  the  second  report.  At  the  first,  blaze  away  with  your  blank 
cartridges,  and  don't  hurt  our  dear  Zouaves.  Here's  something 
for  yourself,  Lorrillard  !  Only  an  earnest  of  what  you  may 
expect  when  this  little  skirmish  is  over." 

The  sham-barricader  accepted  the  gold  coins  passed  into  his 
palm ;  and  with  a  salute  such  as  might  have  been  given  by  the 
boacswain  of  a  buccaneer,  he  slouched  back  through  the  half- 
opened  doorway,  and  disappeared. 

Other  couriers  continued  to  come  and  go,  most  in  military 
costumes,  delivering  their  divers  reports — some  of  them  in  open 
speech,  others  in  mysterious  unuertone — not  a  few  of  them  under 
the  influence  of  drink  ! 

On  that  day  the  army  of  Pans  was  in  a  state  of  intoxication — 
ready  not  alone  for  the  suppression  of  a  not  they  had  been  told 
to  prepare  for;  but  for  anything— even  to  the  slaughter  of  the 
whole  Parisian  people  1 


6o  Tlie  Child  Wife. 


At  3  p.m.  they  were  quite  prepared  for  this.  The  cham- 
pagne and  sausages  were  all  consumed.  They  were  again 
hungry  and  thirsty,  but  it  was  the  hunger  of  the  hell-hound,  and 
the  thirst  of  the  bloodhound. 

*'  The  time  has  come  !  "  said  De  M to  his  fellow-conspira- 
tors. "  We  may  now  release  them  from  their  leash  I  Let  the 
gun  be  fired  I " 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

IN  THE   HOTEL  DE  LOUVRB. 

"Come,  girls  !  It's  time  for  you  to  be  dressing.  The  gentlemen 
are  due  in  half  an  hour." 

The  speech  was  made  in  a  handsome  apartment  of  the  Hotel 
de  Louvre,  and  addressed  to  two  young  ladies,  in  elegant 
deshabille,  one  of  them  seated  in  an  easy  chair,  the  other  lying 
full  length  upon  a  sofa. 

A  negress,  with  chequered  toque,  was  standing  near  the  door, 
summoned  in  to  assist  the  young  ladies  in  their  toilet. 

The  reader  may  recognise  Mrs.  Girdwood,  daughter,  niece, 
and  servant. 

It  is  months  since  we  have  met  them.  They  have  done  the 
European  tour  up  the  Rhine,  over  the  Alps,  into  Italy.  They 
are  returning  by  way  of  Paris,  into  which  capital  they  have  but 
lately  entered ;  and  are  still  engaged  in  its  exploration. 

"See  Paris  last,"  was  the  advice  given  them  by  a  Parisian 
gentleman,  whose  acquaintance  they  had  made;  and  when  Mrs. 
Girdwood,  who  smattered  a  little  French,  asked,  Pourquoil  she 
was  told  that  by  seeing  it  first  she  would  care  for  nothing  beyond. 

She  had  taken  the  Frenchman's  hint,  and  was  now  completing 
the  programme. 

Though  she  had  met  German  barons  and  Italian  counts  by 
the  score,  her  girls  were  still  unengaged.  Nothing  suitable  had 
offered  itself  in  the  shape  of  a  title.  It  remained  to  be  seen  what 
Paris  would  produce. 

The  gentlemen  "  due  in  half  an  hour"  were  old  acquaintances; 
two  of  them  her  countrymen,  who,  making  the  same  tour,  had 
turned  up  repeatedly  on  the  route,  sometimes  travelling  in  her 
company.     They  were  Messrs.  Lucas  and  Spilier. 

She  thought  nothing  of  these.  But  there  was  a  third  expected, 
and  looked  for  with  more  interest;  one  who  had  only  called 

x6x  If 


162  The  Child  Wife. 


upon  them  the  day  before,  and  whom  they  had  not  seen  since 
the  occasion  of  his  having  dined  with  them  in  their  Fifth  Avenue 
house  in  New  York. 

It  was  the  lost  lord. 

On  his  visit  of  yesterday  everything  had  been  explained ;  how 
he  had  been  detained  in  the  States  on  diplomatic  business ;  how 
he  had  arrived  in  London  after  their  departure  for  the  Continent, 
with  apologies  for  not  writing  to  them — ignorant  of  their  where- 
abouts. 

On  Mr.  S  win  ton's  part  this  last  was  a  lie,  as  well  as  the  first. 
In  the  chronicles  of  the  time  he  had  full  knowledge  of  where 
they  might  have  been  found.  He  had  studiously  consulted  the 
American  newspaper  published  in  London,  which  registered  the 
arrivals  and  departures  of  transatlantic  tourists,  and  knew  to  an 
hour  when  Mrs.  Girdwood  and  her  girls  left  Cologne,  crossed  the 
Alps,  stood  upon  the  Bridge  of  Sighs,  or  climbed  to  the  burning 
crater  of  Vesuvius. 

And  he  had  sighed  and  burned  to  be  along  with  them,  but 
could  not.  There  was  something  needed  for  the  accomplishment 
of  his  wishes — cash. 

It  was  only  when  he  saw  recorded  the  Girdwood  arrival  in 
Paris,  that  he  was  at  length  enabled  to  scrape  together  sufficient 
for  the  expenses  of  a  passage  to,  and  short  sojourn  in,  the  French 
capital ;  and  this  only  after  a  propitious  adventure  in  which  he 
had  been  assisted  by  the  smiles  of  the  goddess  Fortune,  and  the 
beauty  of  his  beloved  Fan.  Fan  had  been  left  behind  in  the 
London  lodging.  And  by  her  own  consent.  She  was  satisfied 
to  stay,  even  with  the  slender  stipend  her  husband  could  afford 
to  leave  for  her  maintenance.  In  London  the  pretty  horse- 
breaker  would  be  at  home. 

11  You  have  only  half  an  hour,  my  dears  ! "  counselled  Mrs. 
Girdwood,  to  stimulate  the  girls  towards  getting  ready. 

Cornelia,  who  occupied  the  chair,  rose  to  her  feet,  laying  aside 
the  crochet  on  which  she  had  been  engaged,  and  going  off  to  be 
dressed  by  Keziah. 

Julia,  on  the  sofa,  simply  yawned. 

Only  at  a  third  admonition  from  her  mother,  she  flung  the 
French  novel  she  had  been  reading  upon  the  floor,  and  sat  up. 


In  the  Hotel  de  Louvre.  163 

"  Bother  the  gentlemen  ! "  she  exclaimed,  repeating  the  yawn 
with  arms  upraised.  "I  wish,  ma,  you  hadn't  asked  them  to 
come.  I'd  rather  have  stayed  in  all  day,  and  finished  that  beau- 
tiful story  I've  got  into.  Heaven  bless  that  dear  Georges  Said  ! 
Woman  that  she  is,  she  should  have  been  a  man.  She  knows 
them  as  if  she  were  one ;  their  pretensions  and  treachery.  Oh, 
mother  !  when  you  were  determined  on  having  a  child,  why  did  I 
you  make  it  a  daughter  ?  I'd  give  the  world  to  have  been  your 
son ! " 

"  Fie,  fie,  Jule !  Don't  let  any  one  hear  you  talk  in  that 
silly  way  ! " 

"  I  don't  care  whether  they  do  or  not.  I  don't  care  if  all 
Paris,  all  France,  all  the  world  knows  it.  I  want  to  be  a  man, 
and  to  have  a  man's  power." 

"  Pff,  child !  A  man's  power !  There's  no  such  thing  in 
existence,  only  in  outward  show.  It  has  never  been  exerted, 
without  a  woman's  will  at  the  back  of  it  That  is  the  source  of 
all  power." 

The  storekeeper's  relict  was  reasoning  from  experience.  She 
knew  whose  will  had  made  her  the  mistress  of  a  house  in  the 
Fifth  Avenue ;  and  given  her  scores,  hundreds,  of  other  advan- 
tages, she  had  never  credited  to  the  sagacity  of  her  husband. 

"  To  be  a  woman,"  she  continued,  "  one  who  knows  man  and 
how  to  manage  him,  that  is  enough  for  me.  Ah  !  Jule,  if  I'd  only 
had  your  opportunities,  I  might  this  day  have  been  anything." 

"  Opportunities  !     What  are  they  ?  " 

"  Your  beauty  for  one." 

"  Oh,  ma  !  you  had  that     You  still  show  it." 

To  Mrs.  Gird  wood  the  reply  was  not  unpleasant.  She  had 
not  lost  conceit  in  that  personal  appearance  that  had  subdued 
the  heart  of  the  rich  retailer ;  and,  but  for  a  disinheriting  clause 
in  his  will,  might  have  thought  of  submitting  her  charms  to  a 
second  market.  But  although  this  restrained  her  from  speculat- 
ing on  matrimony,  she  was  still  good  for  flattery  and  flirtation. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  "  if  I  had  good  looks,  what  mattered  they 
without  money?     You  have  both,  my  child." 

"  And  both  don't  appear  to  help  me  to  ft  husband — such  M 
you  want  me  to  have,  mamma," 


i64  The  Child  Wife, 


u  It  will  be  your  own  fault  if  they  don't  His  lordship  would 
never  have  renewed  his  acquaintance  with  us  if  he  didn't  mean 
something.  From  what  he  hinted  to  me  yesterday,  I'm  .sure  he 
has  come  to  Paris  on  our  account  He  almost  said  as  much. 
It  is  you,  Julia,  it  is  you." 

Julia  came  very  near  expressing  a  wish  that  his  lordship  was 
at  the  bottom  of  the  sea ;  but  knowing  how  it  would  annoy  her 
mother,  she  kept  the  sentiment  to  herself.  She  had  just  time  to 
get  enrobed  for  the  street,  as  the  gentleman  was  announced.  He 
was  still  plain  Mr.  Swinton,  still  travelling  incogtiito,  on  "  seqwet 
diplomatic  business  for  the  Bwitish  Government"  So  had  he 
stated  in  confidence  to  Mrs.  Girdwood. 

Shortly  after,  Messrs.  Lucas  and  Spiller  made  their  appearance, 
and  the  party  was  complete. 

It  was  only  to  be  a  promenade  on  the  Boulevards,  to  end  in  a 
little  dinner  in  the  Cafe*  Riche,  Royale,  or  the  Maison  Dore\ 

And  with  this  simple  programme,  the  six  sallied  forth  from  the 
Kotel  de  Louvre. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

ON     THE     BOULEVARDS. 

On  the  afternoon  of  that  same  Second  of  December,  a  man, 
sauntering  along  the  Boulevards,  said  to  himself : 

"  There's  trouble  hanging  over  this  gay  city  of  Paris.  1  can 
smell  mischief  in  its  atmosphere." 

The  man  who  made  this  remark  was  Captain  Maynard.  He 
was  walking  out  alone,  having  arrived  in  Paris  only  the  day 
before. 

His  presence  in  the  French  metropolis  may  be  explained  by 
stating,  that  he  had  read  in  an  English  newspaper  a  paragraph 
announcing  the  arrival  of  Sir  George  Vernon  at  Paris.  The 
paragraph  further  said,  that  Sir  George  had  returned  thither  after 
visiting  the  various  courts  of  Europe  on  some  secret  and  con- 
fidential mission  to  the*  different  British  ambassadors. 

Something  of  this  Maynard  knew  already.  He  had  not  slighted 
the  invitation  given  him  by  the  English  baronet  on  the  landing- 
wharf  at  Liverpool.  Returning  from  his  Hungarian  expedition,  he 
had  gone  down  to  Sevenoaks,  Kent.  Too  late,  and  again  to  suffer 
disappointment.  Sir  George  had  just  started  for  a  tour  of  travel 
on  the  Continent,  taking  his  daughter  along  with  him.  He 
might  be  gone  for  a  year,  or  maybe  more.  This  was  all  his 
steward  could  or  would  tell. 

Not  much  more  of  the  missing  baronet  could  Maynard  learn 
in  London.  Only  the  on  dit  in  political  circles  that  he  had  been 
entrusted  with  some  sort  of  secret  circular  mission  to  the  Euro- 
pean courts,  or  those  of  them  known  as  the  Great  Powers. 

Its  secrecy  must  have  been  deemed  important  for  Sir  George 
to  travel  incognito.  And  so  must  he  have  travelled ;  else  Maynard, 
diligently  consulting  the  chronicles  of  the  times,  should  have 
discovered  his  whereabouts. 

This  he  had  daily  done,  making  inquiries  elsewhere,  and  with- 
es 


166  The  Child  Wife. 


out  success ;  until,  months  after,  his  eye  fell  upon  the  paragraph 
in  question. 

Had  he  still  faith  in  that  presentiment,  several  times  so  con- 
fidently expressed? 

If  so,  it  did  not  hinder  him  from  passing  over  to  Paris,  and 
'aking  steps  to  help  in  the  desired  destiny. 

Certain  it  was  still  desired.  The  anxiety  he  had  shown  to  get 
upon  the  track  of  Sir  George's  travel,  the  haste  made  on  discover- 
ing it,  and  the  diligence  he  was  now  showing  to  find  the  English 
baronet's  address  in  the  French  capital,  were  proofs  that  he  was 
not  altogether  a  fatalist. 

During  the  twenty-four  hours  since  his  arrival  in  Paris,  he  had 
made  inquiries  at  every  hotel  where  such  a  guest  was  likely  to 
make  stay.  But  no  Sir  George  Vernon — no  English  baronet 
could  be  found. 

He  had  at  length  determined  to  try  at  the  English  Embassy. 
But  that  was  left  for  the  next  day ;  and,  like  all  strangers,  he 
went  out  to  take  a  stroll  along  the  Boulevards. 

He  had  reached  that  of  Montmartre  as  the  thought,  chronicled 
above,  occurred  to  him. 

It  could  scarce  have  been  suggested  by  anything  he  there  saw. 
Passing  and  meeting  him  were  the  Parisian  people — citizens  of 
a  free  republic,  with  a  president  of  their  own  choice.  The  bluff 
bourgeois,  with  safemme  linked  on  his  left  arm,  and  safille,  perhaps 
a  pietty  child,  hand-led,  on  his  right.  Behind  him  it  might  be 
a  brace  of  gaily-dressed  grisettes,  close  followed  by  a  couple  of 
the  young  dores,  exchanging  stealthy  glance  or  bold  repartee. 

Here  and  there  a  party  of  students,  released  from  the  studies 
of  the  day,  a  group  of  promenaders  of  both  sexes,  ladies  and 
gentlemen,  who  had  sallied  out  to  enjoy  the  fine  weather,  and 
the  walk  upon  the  broad,  smooth  banquette  of  the  Boulevard,  all 
chatting  in  tranquil  strain,  unsuspicious  of  danger,  as  if  they  had 
been  sauntering  along  a  rural  road,  or  the  strand  of  some  quiet 
watering-place, 

A  sky  over  them  serene  as  that  which  may  have  canopied  the 
garden  of  Eden  ;  an  atmosphere  around  so  mild  that  the  doors 
of  the  cafes  had  been  thrown  open,  and  inside  could  be  seen  the 
true  Parisian  ftantur — artists  or  authors—  seated  by  the  marble- 


On  the  Boulevards.  \6j 


topped  table,  sipping  his  eau  sucre,  slipping  the  spare  sugar  lumps 
into  his  pocket  for  home  use  in  his  six  francs-a-week  garret,  and 
dividing  his  admiration  between  the  patent- leather  shoes  on  his 
feet  and  the  silken-dressed  damsels  who  passed  and  repassed 
along  the  flagged  pavement  in  front. 

It  was  not  from  observation  of  these  Parisian  peculiarities  that 
Maynard  had  been  led  to  make  the  remark  we  have  recorded, 
but  from  a  scene  to  which  he  had  been  witness  on  the  preceding 
nigh*:       • 

Straying  through  the  Palais  Royal,  then  called  "  National,"  he 
had  entered  the  Cafe  de  Mille  Colonnes,  the  noted  resort  of  the 
Algerine  officers.  With  the  recklessness  of  one  who  seeks  adven- 
ture for  its  own  sake,  and  who  has  been  accustomed  to  having 
it  without  stint,  he  soon  found  himself  amidst  men  unaccustomed 
to  introductions.  Paying  freely  for  their  drinks  —to  which,  truth 
compels  me  to  say,  as  far  as  in  their  purses  they  corresponded — he 
was  soon  clinking  cups  with  them,  and  listening  to  their  senti- 
ments. He  could  not  help  remarking  the  recurrence  of  that 
toast  which  has  since  brought  humiliation  to  France. 

"  Vive  VE7npereiir  ! " 

At  least  a  dozen  times  was  it  drunk  during  the  evening — each 
time  with  an  enthusiasm  that  sounded  ominous  in  the  ears  of  the 
republican  soldier.  There  was  a  unanimity,  too,  that  rendered 
it  the  more  impressive.  He  knew  that  the  French  President  was 
aiming  at  Empire ;  but  up  to  that  hour  he  could  not  believe  in 
the  possibility  of  his  achieving  it. 

As  he  drank  with  the  Chasseurs  d'Afrique  in  the  Cafe*  de  Mille 
Colonnes,  he  saw  it  was  not  only  possible  but  proximate ;  and 
that  ere  long  Louis  Napoleon  would  either  wrap  his  shoulders  in 
the  Imperial  purple  or  in  a  shroud. 

The  thought  stung  him  to  the  quick.  Even  in  that  company 
he  could  not  conceal  his  chagrin.  He  gave  expression  to  it  in 
a  phrase,  half  in  soliloquy,  half  meant  for  the  ear  of  a  man  who 
appeared  the  most  moderate  among  the  enthusiasts  around  him. 

"  Pauvre  France!"  was  the  reflection. 

"  Pauvre  France  1 "  cried  a  fierce-looking  but  diminutive  sous- 
lieutenant  of  Zouaves,  catching  up  the  phrase,  and  turning  toward 
the  man  who  had  given  utterance  to  it.  . 


1 68  Tlie  Child  Wife. 


u  Pauvre  France  /    Pourqiwi^  monsieur  t n 

"I  pity  France,"  said  Maynard,  "if  you  intend  making  an 
Empire  of  it." 

"  What's  that  to  you  ?  "  angrily  rejoined  the  Zouave  lieutenant, 
whose  beard  and  moustache,  meeting  over  his  mouth,  gave  a 
hissing  utterance  to  his  speech.  "  What  does  it  concern  you, 
monsieur  ?  " 

"Not  so  fast,  Virocq  !"  interposed  the  officer  to  whom  May- 
nard had  more  particularly  addressed  himself.  "This  gentleman 
is  a  soldier  like  ourselves.  But  he  is  an  American,  and  of  course 
believes  in  the  republic.  We  have  all  our  political  inclinings. 
That's  no  reason  why  we  should  not  be  friends  socially — as  we 
are  here  ! " 

Virocq,  after  making  a  survey  of  Maynard,  who  did  not  quail 
before  his  scrutiny,  seemed  contented  with  the  explanation.  At 
all  events,  he  satisfied  his  wounded  patriotism  by  once  more 
turning  to  the  clique  of  his  comrades,  tossing  his  glass  on  high, 
and  once  more  vociferating  "  Vive  rEmpereur  /  " 

It  was  the  remembrance  of  this  scene  of  last  night  that  led 
Maynard  to  reflect,  when  passing  along  the  Boulevard,  there  was 
mischief  in  the  atmosphere  of  Paris. 

He  became  more  convinced  of  it  as  he  walked  on  toward  the 
Boulevard  de  Bastille.  There  the  stream  of  promenaders  showed 
groups  of  a  different  aspect :  for  he  had  gone  beyond  the  point 
where  the  genteel  bourgeoisie  takes  its  turn  ;  where  patent-leather 
boots  and  eau  sucrk  give  place  to  a  coarser  chassure  and  stronger 
beverage.  Blouses  were  intermingled  with  the  throng  ;  while  the 
casernes  on  both  sides  of  the  street  were  filled  with  soldiers, 
drinking  without  stint,  and  what  seemed  stranger  still,  with  their 
officers  along  with  them  ! 

With  all  his  republican  experience — even  in  the  campaign  of 
Mexico — even  under  the  exigencies  of  the  relaxed  discipline 
brought  about  by  the  proximity  of  death  upon  the  battle-field, 
the  revolutionary  leader  could  not  help  astonishment  at  this. 
He  was  still  more  surprised  to  see  the  French  people  along  the 
street — even  the  blouses  submitting  to  repeated  insults  put  upon 
them  by  those  things  in  uniform;  the  former  stout,  istaTwart 
fellows  ;   the    latter,   most  of  them,  diminutive   ruffians,  despite 


On  the  Boulevards.  169 


their  big  breeches  and  swaggering  gait,  looking  more  like  monkeys 
than  men. 

From  such  a  scene,  back  toward  Montmartre  he  turned  with 
disgust. 

While  retracing  his  steps,  he  reflected  : 

"  If  the  French  people  allow  themselves  to  be  bullied  by  such 
bavards  as  these,  it's  no  business  of  mine.  They  don't  deserve 
to  be  free." 

He  was  on  the  Boulevard  des  Italiens  as  he  made  this  reflec* 
tion,  heading  on  for  the  widening  way  of  the  Rue  de  la  Paix. 
He  had  already  noticed  a  change  in  the  aspect  of  the  pro- 
menaders. 

Troops  were  passing  along  the  pavement ;  and  taking  station 
at  the  corners  of  the  streets.  Detachments  occupied  the  casernes 
and  cafes,  not  in  serious,  soldier-like  sobriety,  but  calling  imperi- 
ously for  refreshments,  and  drinking  without  thought  or  pretence 
of  payment.  The  bar-keeper  refusing  them  was  threatened  with 
a  blow,  or  the  thrust  of  a  sabre  ! 

The  promenaders  on  the  pave  were  rudely  accosted.  Some  of 
them  pushed  aside  by  half-intoxicated  squads,  that  passed  them 
on  the  double-quick,  as  if  bent  on  some  exigent  duty. 

Seeing  this,  some  parties  had  taken  to  the  side  streets  to  regain 
their  houses.  Others,  supposing  it  only  a  soldierly  freak — the 
return  from  a  Presidential  review — were  disposed  to  take  it  in 
good  part;  and  thinking  the  thing  would  soon  be  over,  still 
stayed  upon  the  Boulevard. 

Maynard  was  among  those  who  remained. 

Interrupted  by  the  passing  of  a  company  of  Zouaves,  he  had 
taken  stand  upon  the  steps  of  a  house,  near  the  embouchure  of 
the  Rue  de  Vivienne.  With  a  soldier's  eye  he  was  scrutinizing 
these  military  vagabonds,  supposed  to  be  of  Arab  race,  but  whom 
he  knew  to  be  the  scou rings  of  the  Parisian  streets,  disguised 
under  the  turbans  of  the  Mohammed.  He  did  not  think  in  after 
years  such  types  of  military  would  be  imitated  in  the  land  he 
had  left  behind,  with  such  pride  iu  its  chivalry. 

He  saw  that  they  were  already  half-intoxicated,  staggering  after 
their  leader  in  careless  file,  little  regarding  the  commands  called 
back  to  them.     Out  of  the  ranks  they  were  dropping  off,  in  twos 


170  The  Child  Wife. 


and  threes,  entering  the  cafes,  or  accosting  whatever  citizen 
chanced  to  challenge  their  attention. 

In  the  doorway  where  Maynard  had  drawn  up,  a  young  girl 
had  also  taken  refuge.  She  was  a  pretty  creature  and  somewhat 
elegantly  dressed ;  withal  of  modest  appearance.  She  may  have 
been  "grisette"  or  "cocotte."  It  mattered  not  to  Maynard,  who 
had  not  been  regarding  her. 

But  her  fair  proportions  had  caught  the  eye  of  one  of  the 
passing  Zouaves ;  who,  parting  from  the  ranks  of  his  comrades, 
rushed  up  the  steps  and  insisted  upon  kissing  her ! 

The  girl  appealed  to  Maynard,  who,  without  giving  an  instant 
to  reflection,  seized  the  Zouave  by  the  collar,  and  with  a  kick 
sent  him  staggering  from  the  steps. 

A  shout  of  "  Secours  /"  traversed  along  the  line,  and  the  whole 
troop  halted,  as  if  surprised  by  a  sudden  assault  of  Arabs.  The 
officer  leading  them  came  running  back,  and  stood  confronting 
the  stranger. 

"  Sacri  !  "  he  cried.  "  It's  you,  monsieur !  you  who  go  against 
the  Empire  1 " 

Maynard  recognised  the  ruffian,  who  on  the  night  before  had 
disputed  with  him  in  the  Cafe"  de  Mille  Colonnes. 

"  Bon  I "  cried  Virocq,  before  Maynard  could  make  either  pro- 
test or  reply.  "Lay  hold  upon  him,  comrades  !  Take  him  back 
to  the  guard-house  in  the  Champs  Elysdes.  You'll  repent  your 
interference  monsieur,  in  a  country  that  calls  for  the  Empire 
and  order.      Vive  VEmpereur  /  " 

Half  a  dozen  crimson-breeched  ruffians  springing  from  the 
ranks  threw  themselves  around  Maynard,  and  commenced 
dragging  him  along  the  Boulevard. 

It  required  this  number  to  conquer  and  carry  him  away. 

At  the  corner  of  the  Rue  de  la  Paix  a  strange  tableau  was 
presented  to  his  eyes.  Three  ladies,  accompanied  by  three 
gentlemen,  were  spectators  of  his  humiliation.  Promenading 
upon  the  pavement,  they  had  drawn  up  on  one  side  to  give 
passage  to  the  soldiers  who  had  him  in  charge. 

Notwithstanding  the  haste  in  which  he  was  carried  past  them, 
he  saw  who  they  were :  Mrs.  Girdwood  and  her  girls — Richard 
Swinton,  Louis  Lucas,  and  his  acolyte,  attending  upon  them  1 


On  the  Boulevards.  171 


There  was  no  time  to  think  of  them,  or  why  they  were  there. 
Dragged  along  by  the  Zouaves,  occasionally  cursed  and  cuffed  by 
them,  absorbed  in  his  own  wild  rage,  Maynard  only  occupied 
himself  with  thoughts  of  vengeance.  It  was  to  him  an  hour  of 
agODy—  the  agony  of  an  impotent  anger  1 


CHAPTER    XXXIII. 
a  nation's  murder. 

"Bv  Jawve!"  exclaimed  Swinton.  "It's  that  fellaw,  Maynard. 
You  remember  him,  ladies  ?  The  fellaw  who,  at  Newpawt,  wan 
away  after  gwosely  insulting  me,  without  giviug  me  the  oppaw- 
tunity  of  obtaining  the  satisfaction  of  a  gentleman  ?  " 

"Come,  come,  Mr.  Swinton,"  said  Lucas,  interposing.  "I 
don't  wish  to  contradict  you;  but  you'll  excuse  me  for  saying  that 
he  didn't  exactly  run  away.     I  think  I  ought  to  know." 

The  animus  of  Lucas's  speech  is  easily  explained.  He  had 
grown  rather  hostile  to  Swinton.  And  no  wonder.  After  pursuing 
the  Fifth  Avenue  heiress  all  through  the  Continental  tour,  and  as 
he  supposed  with  fair  prospect  of  success,  he  was' once  more  in 
danger  of  being  outdone  by  his  English  rival,  freshly  returned  to 
the  field. 

"  My  deaw  Mr.  Lucas,"  responded  Swinton,  "  that's  all  vewy 
twue.  The  fellaw,  as  you  say,  wote  me  a  lettaw,  which  did  not 
weach  me  in  proper  time.  But  that  was  no  weason  why  he 
should  have  stolen  away  and  left  no  addwess  faw  me  to  find  him/ 

"  He  didn't  steal  away,"  quietly  rejoined  Lucas. 

"  Well,"  said  Swinton,  "  I  won't  argue  the  question.  Not  with 
you  my  deaw  fwend,  at  all  events " 

"What  can  it  mean?"  interposed  Mrs.  Girdwood,  noticing  the 
ill  feeling  between  the  suitors  of  Julia,  and  with  the  design  of 
turning  it  off.  "Why  have  they  arrested  him?  Can  any  one 
tell?" 

"  Pawhaps  he  has  committed  some  kwime  ?  "  suggested  Swinton. 

"  That's  not  likely,  sir,"  sharply  asserted  Cornelia. 

"Aw — aw.  Well,  Miss  Inskip,  I  may  be  wong  in  calling  it 
kwime.  It's  a  question  of  fwaseology  ;  but  I've  been  told  that 
this  Mr.  Maynard  is  one  of  those  wed  wepublicans  who  would 
destwoy  society,  weligion,  in  shawt,  evewything.     No  doubt,  he 


A  Nation's  Murder.  173 


has  been  meddling  heaw  in  Fwance,  and  that's  the  cause  of  his 
being  a  pwisoner.     At  least  I  suppose  so." 

Julia  had  as  yet  said  nothing.  She  was  gazing  after  the 
arrested  man,  who  had  ceased  struggling  against  his  captors,  and 
was  being  hurried  off  out  of  sight.  , 

In  the  mind  of  the  proud  girl  there  was  a  thought  Maynard 
might  have  felt  proud  of  inspiring.  In  that  moment  of  his 
humiliation  he  knew  not  that  the  most  beautiful  woman  on  the 
Boulevard  had  him  in  her  heart  with  a  deep  interest,  and  a 
sympathy  for  his  misfortune — whatever  it  might  be. 

"  Can  nothing  be  done,  mamma  ?  n 

"For  what,  Julia?" 

"  For  him,"  and  she  pointed  after  Maynard. 

"  Certainly  not,  my  child.  Not  by  us.  It  is  no  affair  of  ours. 
He  has  got  himself  into  some  trouble  with  the  soldiers.  Perhaps, 
as  Mr.  Swinton  says,  political.  Let  him  get  out  of  it  as  he  can. 
I  suppose  he  has  his  friends.  Whether  or  not,  we  can  do  nothing 
for  him.  Not  even  if  we  tried.  How  could  we — strangers  like 
us?" 

"Our  Minister,  mamma.  You  remember  Captain  Maynard 
has  fought  under  the  American  flag.  He  would  be  entitled  to  its 
protection.     Shall  we  go  the  Embassy  ?  " 

"We'll  do  nothing  of  the  kind,  silly  girl.  I  tell  you  it's  no 
affair  of  ours.  We  shan't  make  or  meddle  with  it.  Come !  let 
us  return  to  the  hotel.  These  soldiers  seem  to  be  behaving 
strangely.  We'd  better  get  out  of  their  way.  Look  yonder  1 
There  are  fresh  troops  of  them  pouring  into  the  streets,  and 
talking  angrily  to  the  people  1 " 

It  was  as  Mrs.  Girdwood  had  said.  From  the  side  streets 
armed  bands  were  issuing,  one  after  the  other ;  while  along  the 
open  Boulevard  came  rolling  artillery  carriages,  followed  by  their 
caissons,  the  horses  urged  to  furious  speed  by  drivers  who 
appeared  drunk  1 

Here  and  there  one  dropped  off,  throwing  itself  into  battery 
and  unlimbering  as  if  for  action.  Before,  or  alongside  them, 
galloped  squadrons  of  cavalry,  lancers,  cuirassiers,  and  con- 
spicuously the  Chasseurs  d'Afiique — fit  tools  selected  for  the  task 
that  was  before  them. 


174  The  Child  Wife. 


All  wore  an  air  of  angry  excitement  as  men  under  the  influence 
of  spirits  taken  to  prepare  them  for  some  sanguinary  purpose. 
It  was  proclaimed  by  a  string  of  watchwords  passing  occasionally 
between  them,  "  Vive  PEmpereur  I  Vive  Parmeel  A  bas  ces 
canailles  de  deputes  et  philosophes  I " 

Each  moment  the  turmoil  increased,  the  crowd  also  augmenting 
from  streams  pouring  in  by  the  side  streets.  Citizens  became 
mingled  with  the  soldiery,  and  here  and  there  could  be  heard 
angry  shouts  and  speeches  of  remonstrance. 

All  at  once,  and  as  if  by  a  preconcerted  signal,  came  the  crisU. 

It  was  preconcerted,  and  by  a  signal  only  entrusted  to  the 
leaders. 

A  shot  fired  in  the  direction  of  the  Madeleine  from  a  gun  of 
largest  calibre,  boomed  along  the  Boulevards,  and  went  rever- 
berating over  all  Paris.  It  was  distinctly  heard  in  the  distant 
Bastille,  where  the  sham  barricades  had  been  thrown  up,  and  the 
sham-barricaders  were  listening  for  it.  It  was  quickly  followed 
by  another,  heard  in  like  manner.  Answering  to  it  rose  the 
shout,  "  Vive  V Republique — Rouge  et  D'emocratique  J '" 

Bat  it  was  not  heard  for  long.  Almost  instantaneously  was  it 
drowned  by  the  roar  of  cannon,  and  the  rattling  of  musketry, 
mingled  with  the  imprecations  of  ruffians  in  uniform  rushing 
along  the  street. 

The  fusillade  commencing  at  the  Bastille  did  not  long  stay 
there.  It  was  not  intended  that  it  should  ;  nor  was  it  to  be  con- 
fined to  the  sans  culottes  and  ouvriers.  Like  a  stream  of  fire — the 
ignited  train  of  a  mine — it  swept  along  the  Boulevards,  blazing 
and  crackling  as  it  went,  striking  down  before  it  man  and  woman 
blouse  and  bourgeoise,  student  and  shopkeeper,  in  short  all  who 
had  gone  forth  for  a  promenade  on  that  awful  afternoon.  The 
sober  husband  with  wife  on  one  arm  and  child  on  the  other,  the 
gay  grisette  with  her  student  protector,  the  unsuspicious  stranger, 
lady  or  gentleman,  were  alike  prostrated  under  that  leaden  shower 
of  death.  People  rushed  screaming  towards  the  doorways,  or 
attempted  to  escape  through  side  streets.  But  here,  too,  they 
were  met  by  men  in  uniform.  Chasseurs  and  Zouaves,  who  with 
foaming  lips  and  cheeks  black  from  the  biting  of  cartridges,  drove 
them  back  before  sabre  and  bayonet,  impaling  them  by  scores, 


A  Nation's  Murder,  175 

amidst  hoarse  shouts  and  fiendish  cachinnation,  as  of  maniacs  let 
forth  to  indulge  in  a  wild  saturnalia  of  death  ! 

And  it  continued  till  the  pave  was  heaped  with  dead  bodies, 
and  the  gutters  ran  blood ;  till  there  was  nothing  more  to  kill,  and 
cruelty  stayed  its  stroke  for  want  of  a  victim  ! 

A  dread  episode  was  fhat  massacre  of  the  Second  of  December, 
striking  terror  to  the  heart,  not  only  of  Pans,  but  France. 


CHAPTER    XXXIV 
"i'll   come  to  you!" 

In  the  balconied  window  of  a  handsome  house  fronting  on  the 
Tuileries  Gardens  were  two  female  figures,  neither  of  which  had 
anything  to  pronounce  them  Parisian.  One  was  a  young  girl 
with  an  English  face,  bright  roseate  complexion,  and  sunny  hair; 
the  other  was  a  tawny-skinned  mulatto. 

The  reader  will  recognise  Blanche  Vernon  and  her  attendant, 
Sabina. 

It  was  not  strange  that  Maynard  could  not  find  Sir  George  at 
any  of  the  hotels.  The  English  baronet  was  quartered  as  above, 
having  preferred  the  privacy  of  a  maison  meublce. 

Sir  George  was  not  at  hocae ;  and  his  daughter,  with  Sabina  by 
her  side,  had  stepped  out  upon  the  balcony  to  observe  the  ever- 
changing  panorama  upon  the  street  below. 

The  call  of  a  cavalry  bugle,  with  the  braying  of  a  military  band, 
had  made  them  aware  that  soldiers  were  passing— a  sight  attrac- 
tive to  women,  whether  young  or  old,  dark  or  fair. 

On  looking  over  the  parapet,  they  saw  that  the  street  was  filled 
with  them:  soldiers  of  all  arms — infantry,  cavalry,  artillery — some 
halted,  some  marching  past ;  while  officers  in  brilliant  uniforms, 
mounted  on  fine  horses,  were  galloping  to  and  fro,  vociferating 
orders  to  the  various  squadrons  they  commanded. 

For  some  time  the  young  English  girl  and  her  attendant  looked 
down  upon  the  glittering  array,  without  exchanging  speech. 

It  was  Sabina  who  at  length  broke  silence. 

"  Dey  ain't  nowha  'longside  ow  British  officas,  for  all  dat  gildin' 
an'  red  trowsas.  Dey  minds  me  ob  a  monkey  I  once  see  in 
'Badoes  dress'  up  soja  fashion — jes*  like  dat  monkey  some  o'  'em 
lookl" 

"  Come,  Sabby !  you  are  severe  in  your  criticism.  These 
French  officers  have  the  name  of  being  very  brave  and  gallant" 


"  r  11  come  to  you  t"  177 


The  daughter  of  Sir  George  Vernon  was  a  year  older  than 
when  last  seen  by  us.  She  had  travelled  a  great  deal  of  late. 
Though  still  but  a  child,  it  was  not  strange  she  should  talk  with 
the  sageness  of  a  woman. 

"Doan  b'lieve  it,"  was  the  curt  answer  of  the  attendant. 
"Dar  only  brave  when  dey  drink  wine,  an'  gallant  when  de 
womans  am  good-looking.  Dat's  what  dese  French  be.  AfFer 
all  dey's  only  'publicans,  jess  de  same  as  in  dem  'Meriky  States." 
The  remark  seemed  to  produce  a  sudden  change  in  the  attitude 
of  the  young  girl.  A  remembrance  came  over  her;  and  instead 
of  continuing  to  gaze  at  the  soldiers  below,  she  stood  abstracted 
and  thoughtful. 

'  Sabina  noticed  her  abstraction,  and  had  some  suspicion  of  what 
was  causing  it.  Though  her  young  mistress  had  long  since  ceased 
to  be  a  communicative  child,  the  shrewd  attendant  could  guess 
what  was  passing  through  her  thoughts. 

The  words  "Republic"  and  " America, "  though  spoken  in 
Badian  patois,  had  recalled  incidents,  by  Blanche  never  to  be 
forgotten. 

Despite  her  late  reticence  on  the  subject  of  these  past  scenes, 
Sabina  knew  that  she  still  fondly  remembered  them.  Her  silence 
but  showed  it  the  more. 

"'Deed  yes,  Missy  Blanche,"  continued  the  mulatto,  "dem 
fellas  down  dar  hab  no  respeck  for  politeness.  Jess  see  de  way 
dey's  swaggerin' !  Look  how  dey  push  dem  poor  people  'bout !" 
She  referred  to  an  incident  transpiring  on  the  street  below.  A 
small  troop  of  Zouaves,  marching  rapidly  along  the  sidewalk,  had 
closed  suddenly  upon  a  crowd  of  civilian  spectators.  Instead  of 
giving  fair  time  for  the  latter  to  make  way,  the  officer  at  the 
head  of  the  troop  not  only  vented  vociferations  upon  them,  but 
threatened  them  with  drawn  sword  ;  while  the  red-breeched  ruffians 
at  his  back  seemed  equally  ready  to  make  use  of  their  bayonets  ! 

Some  of  the  people  treated  it  as  a  joke,  and  laughed  loudly ; 
Others  gave  back  angry  words  or  jeers ;  while  the  majority 
appeared  awed  and  trembling. 

"  Dem's  de  sogas  ob  de  'public  — de  officas,  too  1 "  exultingly 
pursued  the  loyal  Badian.  "You  nebba  see  officas  ob  de  Queen 
of  England  do  dat  way.     Nebba  I w 

If 


i;8  The  Child  Wife. 

"No,  nor  all  republican  officers,  Sabby.  I  know  one  who 
would  not,  and  so  do  you." 

'•Ah!  Missy  Blanche;  me  guess  who  you  peakin'  of.  Dat 
young  genlum  save  you  from  de  'tagin'  ob  de  steama.  Berry  true. 
He  was  brave,  gallant  offica — Sabby  say  dat." 

"  But  he  was  a  republican  !  " 

"  Well,  maybe  he  wa.  Dey  said  so.  But  he  wan't  none  ob 
de  'Meriky  'publicans,  nor  ob  dese  French  neida.  Me  hear  you 
fadda  say  he  b'long  to  de  country  ob  England." 

"To  Ireland." 

"  Shoo,  Missy  Blanche,  dat  all  de  same  !  Tho'  he  no  like  dem 
Irish  we  see  out  in  de  Wes'  Indy.  Dar's  plenty  ob  dem  in 
'Badoes." 

"You're  speaking  of  the  Irish  labourers,  whom  you've  seen 
doing  the  hard  work.  Captain  Maynard — that's  his  name,  Sabby 
— is  a  gentleman.     Of  course  that  makes  the  difference." 

"  Ob  course.  A  berry  great  diff'rence.  He  no  like  dem  no- 
how. But  Missy  Blanche,  wonda  wha  he  now  am  !  Trange  we 
no  mo'  hear  ob  him  !  You  tink  he  gone  back  to  de  'Meriky 
States  ?  " 

The  question  touched  a  chord  in  the  bosom  of  the  young  girl 
that  thrilled  unpleasantly.  It  was  the  same  that  for  more  than 
twelve  months  she  had  been  putting  to  herself,  in  daily  repe- 
titions.    She  could  no  more  answer  it  than  the  mulatto. 

"  I'm  sure  I  cannot  tell,  Sabby." 

She  said  this  with  an  air  of  calmness  which  her  quick-witted 
attendant  knew  to  be  unreal. 

"  Berry  trange  he  no  come  to  meet  you  fadda  in  de  big  house 
at  Seven  Oak.  Me  see  de  gubnor  gib  um  de  'dress  on  one  ob 
dem  card.  Me  hear  your  fadder  say  he  muss  come,  and  hear  de 
young  genlum  make  promise.     Wonda  wha  for  he  no  keep  it?" 

Blanche  wondered  too,  though  without  declaring  it.  Many  an 
hour  had  she  spent  conjecturing  the  cause  of  his  failing  to  keep 
that  promise.  She  would  have  been  glad  to  see  him  again  ;  to 
thank  him  once  more,  and  in  less  hurried  fashion,  for  that  act  of 
gallantry,  which,  it  might  be,  was  the  saving  of  her  life. 

She  had  been  told  then  that  he  intended  to  take  part  in  some 
of  the  revolutions.     But  she  knew  that  all  these  were  over  ;  and 


mI*tf  come  to  you  /"  179 

he  could  not  be  now  engaged  in  them.  He  must  have  stayed  in 
England  or  Ireland.  Or  had  he  returned  to  the  United  States  ? 
In  any  case,  why  had  he  not  come  down  to  Sevenoaks,  Kent  ? 
It  was  but  an  hour's  ride  from  London  ! 

Perhaps  in  the  midst  of  his  exalted  associations — military  and 
political — he  had  forgotten  the  simple  child  he  had  plucked  from 
peril  ?  It  might  be  but  one  of  the  ordinary  incidents  of  his 
adventurous  life,  and  was  scarce  retained  in  his  memory  ? 

But  siie  remembered  it ;  with  a  deep  sense  of  indebtedness — 
a  romantic  gratitude,  that  grew  stronger  as  she  became  more 
capable  of  appreciating  the  disinterestedness  of  the  act. 

Perhaps  all  the  more,  that  the  benefactor  had  not  returned  to 
claim  his  reward.  She  was  old  enough  to  know  her  father's 
position  and  power.  A  mere  adventurer  would  have  availed  him- 
self of  such  a  chance  to  benefit  by  them.  Captain  Maynard  could 
not  be  this. 

It  made  her  happy  to  reflect  that  he  was  a  gentleman ;  but  sad 
to  think  she  should  never  see  him  again. 

Often  had  these  alternations  of  thought  passed  through  the 
mind  of  this  fair  young  creature.  They  were  passing  through  it 
that  moment,  as  she  stood  looking  out  upon  the  Tuileries,  re- 
gardless of  the  stirring  incidents  that  were  passing  upon  the  pave- 
ment below. 

Her  thoughts  were  of  the  past :  of  a  scene  on  the  other  side  of 
the  Atlantic;  of  many  a  little  episode  on  board  the  Cunard 
steamer ;  of  one  yet  more  vividly  remembered,  when  she  was 
hanging  by  a  rope  above  angry  hungering  waves,  till  she  felt  i 
strong  arm  thrown  around  her,  that  lifted  her  beyond  their  rage  1 

She  was  startled  from  her  reverie  by  the  voice  of  her  attendant, 
uttered  in  a  tone  of  unusual  excitement 

"  Look  !  Lookee  yonder,  Missy  Blanche  !  Dem  Arab  fellas 
hab  take  a  man  prisoner !  See  !  dey  fotch  im  this  way — right 
under  de  winda.     Poor  fella  !     Wonda  what  he  been  an  done  ?  " 

Blanche  Vernon  bent  over  the  balcony,  and  scanned  the  street 
below.  Her  eye  soon  rested  on  the  group  pointed  out  by 
Sabina. 

Half  a  dozen  Zouaves,  hurrying  along  with  loud  talk  and 
excited  gesticulation,  conducted  a  man  in  their  midst.     He  was  in 


180  Tke  Child  Wifa 

civilian  dress,  of  a  style  that  bespoke  the  gentleman,  notwith* 
standing  its  disorder. 

"  Some  political  offender !  "  thought  the  daughter  of  the  diplo- 
matist, not  wholly  unacquainted  with  the  proceedings  of  the 
times. 

It  was  a  conjecture  that  passed,  quick  as  it  had  come ;  but  only 
into  a  certainty.  Despite  the  disordered  dress  and  humiliating 
position  of  the  man  the  young  girl  recognised  her  rescuer —he 
who,  but  the  moment  before,  was  occupying  her  thoughts  ! 

And  he  saw  her  !  Walking  with  head  erect,  and  eyes  upturned 
to  the  heaven  he  feared  not  to  face,  his  glance  fell  upon  a  dark- 
skinned  woman  with  a  white  toque  on  her  head,  and  beside  her  a 
young  girl  shining  like  a  Virgin  of  the  Sun  ! 

He  had  no  time  to  salute  them.  No  chance  either,  for  his 
hands  were  in  manacles ! 

In  another  instant  he  was  beneath  the  balcony,  forced  forward 
by  the  chattering  apes  who  were  guarding  him. 

But  he  heard  a  voice  above  his  head — above  their  curses  and 
their  clamour — a  soft,  sweet  voice,  crying  out : 

"  I'll  come  to  you  1     I  will  come  !  " 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

TO  THE   PRISON. 

*  I'll  come  to  you  I    I  will  come  ! " 

True  to  the  intention  thus  proclaimed,  Blanche  Vernon  glided 
back  into  the  room ;  and,  hastily  laying  hold  of  hat  and  cloak, 
was  making  for  the  stair. 

"  You  mad,  missa ! "  cried  the  mulatto,  throwing  herself  into 
the  doorway  with  the  design  of  intercepting  her.  "What  will 
you  fadda  say  ?  Dar's  danger  outside  'mong  dem  noisy  sojas. 
For  lub  ob  de  good  Jesus,  Missy  Blanche,  doan  tink  ob  gohV 
down  to  de  'treet !  " 

"  There's  no  danger.  I  don't  care  if  there  is.  Stand  out  of 
the  way,  Sabby,  or  I'll  be  too  latt.     Stand  aside,  I  tell  you  ! " 

"  Oh,  Mass  Freeman  !  "  appealed  Sabina  to  the  footman,  who 
had  come  out  of  his  ante-chamber  on  hearing  the  excited  dialogue, 
"  you  see  what  you  young  misress  agoin'  to  do  ?  " 

"What  be  it,  Miss  Blanche?" 

"  Nothing,  Freeman  ;  nothing  for  Sabby  to  make  so  much  of. 
I'm  only  going  to  find  papa.     Don't  either  of  you  hinder  me  I " 

The  command  was  spoken  in  that  tone  which  the  servants  of 
England's  aristocracy  are  habituated  to  respect;  and  Blanche 
Vernon,  though  still  only  a  child,  was  accustomed  to  their 
obedience. 

Before  Freeman  could  make  reply,  she  had  passed  out  of  the 
room,  and  commenced  descending  the  escalier. 

Sabina  rushed  after,  no  longer  with  the  design  of  intercepting 
but  to  accompany  her.  Sabby  needed  no  bonnet  Her  white 
toque  was  her  constant  coiffure,  outdoors  as  in. 

Freeman,  laying  hold  of  his  hat,  followed  them  down  the  stair. 

On  reaching  the  street,  the  young  girl  did  not  pause  for  an 
instant;  but  turned  along  the  footway  in  the  direction  in  which 
the  prisoner  had  been  conducted. 

Soldiers  were  still   passing   in   troops,  and   citizens  hurrying 

281 


1 82  The  Child  Wife. 


excitedly  by,  some  going  one  way,  some  another.  Dragoons  were 
galloping  along  the  wide  causeway,  and  through  the  Tuileries 
Gardens ;  while  the  court  inside  the  iron  railing  was  alive  with 
uniformed  men. 

Loud  shouting  was  heard  near  at  hand,  with  the  rolling  of  drum? 
and  the  sharp  calling  of  trumpets. 

Further  off,  in  the  direction  of  the  Boulevards,  there  was  a  con 
>tant  rattling,  which  she  knew  to  be  the  fire  of  musketry,  mingled 
with  the  louder  booming  of  cannon  ! 

She  had  no  knowledge  of  what  it  could  all  mean.  There  were 
always  soldiers  in  the  streets  of  Paris  and  around  the  Tuileries. 
The  marching  of  troops  with  beating  drums,  screaming  bugles, 
and  firing  of  guns,  were  things  of  every  day  occurrence ;  for  almost 
every  day  there  were  reviews  and  military  exercises. 

This  only  differed  from  the  rest  in  the  more  excited  appearance 
of  the  soldiery,  their  ruder  behaviour  toward  the  pedestrians  who 
chanced  in  their  way,  and  the  terrified  appearance  of  the  latter,  as 
they  rushed  quickly  out  of  it.  Several  were  seen  hastening,  as  if 
for  concealment  or  refuge.  The  young  girl  noticed  this,  but  paid 
no  regard  to  it.  She  only  hurried  on,  Sabina  by  her  side,  Free- 
man close  following. 

Her  eyes  were  directed  along  the  sidewalk,  as  if  searching  for 
some  one  who  should  appear  at  a  distance  before  her.  She  was 
scanning  the  motley  crowd  to  make  out  the  Zouave  dresses. 

An  exclamation  at  length  told  that  she  had  discovered  them. 
A  group  in  Oriental  garb  could  be  distinguished  about  a  hundred 
yards  ahead  of  her.  In  their  midst  was  a  man  in  civilian  costume, 
plainly  their  prisoner.  It  was  he  who  had  tempted  her  forth  op 
that  perilous  promenade. 

Whilst  her  eyes  were  still  on  them,  they  turned  suddenly  from 
the  street,  conducting  their  captive  through  a  gateway  that  was 
guarded  by  sentinels  and  surrounded  by  a  crowd  of  soldiers — 
Zouaves  like  themselves. 

"  Monsieur  !  "  said  she,  on  arriving  in  front  of  the  entrance,  and 
addressing  herself  to  one  of  the  soldiers,  "  why  has  that  gentleman 
been  taken  prisoner  ?  " 

As  she  spoke  in  his  own  tongue  the  soldier  had  no  difficulty  in 
understanding  her. 


To  the  Prison.  183 


"  Ho — ho  ! "  he  said,  making  her  a  mock  salute,  and  bending 
down  till  his  hairy  face  almost  touched  her  soft  rose-coloured 
cheek,  "  My  pretty  white  dove  with  the  chevelure  cfor,  what  gentle- 
man are  you  inquiring  about  ?  " 

"  He  who  has  just  been  taken  in  there." 

She  pointed  to  the  gateway  now  closed. 

"  Parbleu  !  my  little  love  !  that's  no  description.  A  score  have 
been  taken  in  there  within  the  last  half-hour — all  gentlemen,  I 
have  no  doubt.     At  least  there  were  no  ladies  among  them." 

"  I  mean  the  one  who  went  in  last.  There  have  been  none 
since." 

"The  last — the  last — let  me  seel  Oh,  I  suppose  he's  been 
shut  up  for  the  same  reason  as  the  others." 

"What  is  it,  monsieur?" 

"  Par  dieu  /  I  can't  tell,  my  pretty  sunbeam !  Why  are  you 
so  interested  in  him?  You  are  not  his  sister,  are  you?  No;  I 
see  you're  not,"  continued  the  soldier,  glancing  at  Sabina  and 
Freeman,  becoming  also  more  respectful  at  the  sight  of  the 
liveried  attendant.     "  You  must  be  une  Anglaise  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  am,"  was  the  reply. 

"If  you'll  stay  here  a  moment,"  said  the  Zouave,  " 111  step 
inside  and  inquire  for  you." 

"  Pray,  do,  monsieur  !  " 

Drawing  a  little  to  one  side,  with  Sabina  and  Freeman  to  pro- 
tect her  from  being  jostled,  Blanche  waited  for  the  man's  return. 

True  to  his  promise  he  came  back  ;  but  without  bringing  the 
required  information. 

He  could  only  tell  them  that  "  the  young  man  had  been  made 
prisoner  for  some  political  offence — for  having  interfered  with  the 
soldiers  when  upon' their  duty." 

"  Perhaps,"  added  he,  in  a  whisper,  "  monsieur  has  been  in- 
cautious. He  may  have  called  out,  '  Vive  la  Republiquet*  when 
the  parole  for  to-day  is  '  Vive  V Ei?ipei-eur  !  '  He  appears  to  be 
an  Anglais.     Is  he  a  relative  of  yours,  mam'selle  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no  !  "  answered  the  young  girl,  turning  hastily  away,  and 
without  even  saying  "  merci "  to  the  man  who  had  taken  such 
trouble  to  serve  her. 

"  Come,  Sabina,  let  us  go  back  to  the  house.     And  you,  Free- 


184  The  Child  Wife. 


man,  run  to  the  English  Embassy  !  If  you  don't  find  papa  there, 
go  in  search  of  him.  All  over  Paris  if  need  be.  Tell  him  he  is 
wanted — that  I  want  him.  Bring  him  along  with  you.  Dear 
Freeman  1  promise  me  you  will  not  lose  a  moment's  time.  It's 
the  same  gentleman  who  saved  my  life  at  Liverpool !  You 
remember  it.  If  harm  should  come  to  him  in  this  horrid  city — 
go  quick,  sir  !     Take  this  !     You  may  need  a  coach.     Tell  papa 

— tell  Lord  C .     You  know  what  to  say.     Quick  !  quick  ! " 

The  handful  of  five-franc  pieces  poured  into  his  palm  would  of 
elf  have  been  sufficient  to  stimulate  the  footman ;  and,  without 
test,  he  started  off  in  the  direction  of  the  English  Embassy. 
lis  young  mistress,  with  her  attendant,  returned  to  the  maisM. 
bice — there  to  await  the  coming  of  her  father. 


CHAPTER  XXXVL 

TO  THE  EMBASSY. 

* Corneel !  are  you  the  woman  to  go  with  me?" 

The  question  was  from  Julia  Girdwood  to  her  cousin,  after 
their  return  to  the  Hotel  de  Louvre.  They  were  alone  in  their 
chambre  de  coucher^  still  shawled  and  bonneted,  as  they  had  come 
in  from  their  promenade. 

Mrs.  Girdwood,  yet  engaged  with  the  trio  of  gentlemen,  was 
in  a  reception-room  below. 

"  Where  ?"  asked  Cornelia. 

"  Where !  I'm  astonished  you  should  ask  !  Of  course  after 
him/" 

"  Dear  Jule !  I  know  what  you  mean.  I  was  thinking  of  it 
myself.  But  what  will  aunt  say,  if  we  so  expose  ourselves? 
There's  danger  in  the  streets.  I  believe  they  were  firing  upon 
the  people — I'm  sure  they  were !  You  hear  the  shooting  now  ? 
Isn't  that  the  roaring  of  cannon  ?    It  sounds  like  it !  " 

•'  Don't  be  a  coward,  cousin  !  You  remember  a  roaring  loud 
as  that  against  the  rocky  cliffs  of  Newport !  Did  he  hold  back 
when  we  were  in  danger  of  our  lives  ?    Perhaps  we  may  save  his  !  * 

"  Julia  !  I  did  not  think  of  holding  back.  I'm  ready  to  go 
with  you,  if  we  can  do  anything  for  him.    What  do  you  propose  ?" 

"  First,  find  out  to  where  they  have  taken  him.  Ill  know  that 
soon.     You  saw  me  speak  to  a  commissaire  1 " 

"  I  did.     You  put  something  into  his  hand  ?  " 

"A  five-franc  piece  for  him  to  follow  the  Zouaves,  and  see 
where  they  took  their  prisoner.  I  promised  him  twice  as  much 
to  come  back  and  make  report.     I  warrant  he'll  soon  be  here." 

"  And  what  then,  Julia  ?     What  can  we  do  ?  " 

"  Of  ourselves,  nothing.  I  don't  know  any  more  than  yourself 
why  Captain  Maynard  has  got  into  trouble  with  these  Parisian 
soldiers.  No  doubt  it's  on  account  of  his  republican  belief.  We've 
heard  about  that ;  and  God  bless  the  man  for  so  believing  1 " 

i8j 


1 86  The  Child  Wife. 


u  D^ar  Julia !  you  know  how  I  agree  with  you  in  the  senti- 
ment : " 

.<  Well— no  matter  what  he's  done.  It's  our  duty  to  do  what 
we  can  for  him." 

"  1  know  it  is,  cousin.     I  only  ask  you  what  can  we  do?" 

"  We  shall  see.  We  have  a  Minister  here.  Not  the  man  he 
should  be  :  for  it's  the  misfortune  of  America  to  send  to  European 
Governments  the  very  men  who  are  not  true  representatives  of 
our  nation.  The  very  opposite  are  chosen.  The  third-rate  in- 
tellects, with  a  pretended  social  polish,  supposed  to  make  them 
acceptable  at  kingly  courts — as  if  the  great  Republic  of  America 
required  to  be  propped  up  with  pretension  and  diplomacy.  Cor 
neel  !  we're  losing  time.  The  man,  to  whom  we  perhaps  both 
owe  our  lives,  may  be  at  this  moment  in  danger  of  losing  his  1 
Who  knows  where  they've  taken  him  ?  It  is  our  duty  to  go  and 
see." 

"Will  you  tell  aunt?" 

"  No.  She'd  be  sure  to  object  to  our  going  out.  Perhaps  take 
steps  to  hinder  us.  Let  us  steal  downstairs,  and  get  off  without 
telling  her.  We  needn't  be  long  absent.  She'll  not  know  any- 
thing about  k  till  we're  back  again." 

"  But  where  do  you  propose  going,  Julia  ?  * 

"  First,  down  to  the  front  of  the  hotel.  There  we  shall  await 
the  commissaire.  I  told  him  the  Hotel  de  Louvre ;  and  I  wish  to 
meet  him  outside.     He  may  be  there  now.     Come,  Corneel ! " 

Still  in  their  promenade  dresses,  there  was  no  need  of  delay ; 
and  the  two  ladies,  gliding  down  the  stone  stairway  of  the  Louvre 
Hotel,  stood  in  the  entrance  below.  They  had  no  waiting  to  do. 
The  commissaire  met  them  on  the  steps,  and  communicated  the 
result  of  his  errand. 

His  account  was  simple.  Accustomed  only  to  speculate  upon 
what  he  was  paid  for,  he  had  observed  only  to  the  limits  of  the 
stipulation.  The  Zouaves  had  carried  their  prisoner  to  a  guard- 
room fronting  the  Tuileries  Gardens,  and  there  shut  him  up.  So 
the  commissary  supposed. 

He  had  made  memorandum  of  the  number,  and  handed  it  over 
to  the  lady  who  commissioned  him,  receiving  in  return  a  golden 
coin,  for  which  no  change  was  required. 


the  Embassy.  V6y 


muttered  Julia  to  her  cousin,  as  they  sallied 
forth  upon  the  street,  and  took  their  way  toward  the  unpreten- 
tious building  that  over  the  door  showed  the  lettering,  "  TJ.  S. 
LEGATION." 

There,  as  everywhere  else,  they  found  excitement  —  even 
terror.  They  had  to  pass  through  a  crowd  mostly  composed  of 
their  own  countrymen. 

But  these,  proverbially  gallant  towards  women,  readily  gave 
way  to  them.     Who  would  not  to  women  such  as  they  ? 

A  Secretary  came  forth  to  receive  them.  He  regretted  that  the 
Minister  was  engaged. 

But  the  proud  Julia  Girdwood  would  take  no  denial.  It  was 
a  matter  of  moment — perhaps  of  life  and  death.  She  must  see 
the  representative  of  her  country,  and  on  the  instant ! 

There  is  no  influence  stronger  than  woman's  beauty.  Perhaps 
none  so  strong.  The  Secretary  of  Legation  succumbed  to  it; 
and,  disregarding  the  orders  he  had  received,  opened  a  side  door, 
and  admitted  the  intercessors  to  an  interview  with  the  Am- 
bassador. 

Their  story  was  soon  told.  A  man  who  had  borne  the  banner 
of  the  Stars  and  Stripes  through  the  hailstorm  of  more  than  one 
battle — who  had  carried  it  up  the  steep  of  Chapultepec,  till  it 
fell  from  his  arm  paralysed  by  the  enemy's  shot — that  man  was 
now  in  Paris — prisoner  to  drunken  Zouave  soldiers— in  peril  of 
his  life  ! 

Such  was  the  appeal  made  to  the  American  Minister. 

It  needed  not  such  beautiful  appellants.  Above  the  conser- 
vatism of  the  man — after  all  only  social — rose  the  purer  pride  of 
his  country's  honour. 

Yielding  to  its  dictates,  he  sallied  forth,  determined  upon  doing 
his  duty. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

DEATH    UPON    THE    DRUMHEAD. 

"  I'll  come  to  you  !    I  will  come  !  " 

Proud  was  the  heart  of  the  prisoner,  as  he  heard  that  cheering 
speech,  and  saw  whence  it  had  come.  It  repaid  him  for  the 
insults  he  was  enduring. 

It  was  still  ringing  sweetly  in  his  ears,  as  he  was  forced  through 
a  doorway,  and  on  into  a  paved  court  enclosed  by  gloomy  walls. 

At  the  bottom  of  this,  an  apartment  resembling  a  prison-cell 
opened  to  receive  him. 

He  was  thrust  into  it,  like  a  refractory  bullock  brought  back  to 
its  pen,  one  of  his  guards  giving  him  a  kick  as  he  stepped  over 
the  threshold. 

He  had  no  chance  to  retaliate  the  brutality.  The  door  closed 
upon  him  with  a  chsh  and  a  curse— followed  by  the  shooting  of 
a  bolt  outside. 

Inside  the  cell  all  was  darkness  ;  and  for  a  moment  he  remained 
standing  where  the  propulsion  had  left  him. 

But  he  was  not  silent.  His  heart  was  full  of  indignation ;  and 
his  lips  mechanically  gave  utterance  to  it  in  a  wild  anathema 
against  all  forms  and  shapes  of  despotism. 

More  than  ever  did  his  heart  thrill  for  the  Republic ;  for  he 
knew  they  were  not  its  soldiers  who  surrounded  him. 

It  was  the  first  time  he  had  experienced  in  his  own  person  the 
bitterness  of  that  irresponsible  rule  confined  to  the  one-man 
power ;  and  better  than  ever  he  now  comprehended  the  heart- 
hatred  of  Roseveldt  for  priests,  princes,  and  kings  ! 

"  It's  plain  the  Republic's  at  an  end  here  !  "  he  muttered  to 
himself,  after  venting  that  anathema  upon  its  enemies. 

"  Cest  vrai,  monsieur"  said  a  voice,  speaking  from  the  interioi 
of  the  cell     "  Cestfinit     It  ends  this  day  !  " 

Maynard  started.     He  had  believed  himself  alone. 


Death  upon  the  Drum-Head.  189 

"You  French  speak?"  continued  the  voice.  "  Vous  Stes 
Anglais  ?  " 

"  To  your  first  question,"  answered  Maynard,  "  Yes  !  To  your 
second,  No  !    Je  suis  Irlandais  !  " 

"  Irlandais  I  For  what  have  they  brought  you  here  ?  Par 
do,'inez-vioiy  monsieur  f     I  take  the  liberties  of  a  fellow-prisoner." 

Maynard  frankly  gave  the  explanation. 

"  Ah  !  my  friend,"  said  the  Frenchman,  on  hearing  it,  "  you 
have  nothing  to  fear  then.     With  me  it  is  different." 

A  sigh  could  be  heard  closing  the  speech. 

"  What  do  you  mean,  monsieur  ?  "  mechanically  inquired  May- 
nard.    "  You  have  not  committed  a  crime  ?  " 

"  Yes  !  A  great  crime — that  of  patriotism  !  I  have  been  true 
to  my  country — to  freedom.  I  am  one  of  the  compromised.  My 
name  is  L ." 

"  L -!"  cried  the  Irish-American,  recognising  a  name  well 

known  to  the  friends  of  freedom.  "Is  it  possible?  Is  it  you? 
My  name  is  Maynard." 

"  Mon  Dieu  !  "  exclaimed  his  French  fellow-prisoner.  "  I've 
heard  of  it !     I  know  you,  sir  ! " 

Amidst  the  darkness  the  two  met  in  mutual  embrace,  mutually 
murmuring  those  cherished  words,  "  Vive  la  republique  /  " 

L added,  "  Rouge  et  democratique!" 

Maynard,  though  he  did  not  go  thus  far,  said  nothing  in  dissent. 
It  was  not  time  to  split  upon  delicate  distinctions  ! 

"  But  what  do  you  mean  by  speaking  of  your  danger  ?  "  asked 
Maynard.     "Surely  it  has  not  come  to  this?" 

"  Do  you  hear  those  sounds  ?  " 

The  two  stood  listening. 

"Yes.  There  is  shouting  outside — shots,  too.  That  is  the 
rattle  of  musketry.  More  distant,  I  hear  guns — cannon.  One 
might  fancy  an  engagement  !  " 

"  It  is  ! "  gravely  responded  the  Red  Republican.  "  An  engage- 
ment that  will  end  in  the  annihilation  of  our  freedom.  You  are 
listening  to  its  death-knell — mine,  too,  I  make  no  doubt  of  it." 

Touched  by  the  serious  words  of  his  fellow-captive,  Maynard 
was  turning  to  him  for  an  explanation,  when  the  door  was  sud- 
denly thrown  open,  discovering  a  group  outside  it.     They  were 


190  The  Child  Wife. 

officers  in  various  uniforms — chiefly  Zouaves  and  Chasseurs 
d'Afrique. 

"  He  is  in  here,"  cried  one  of  them,  whom  Maynard  recognised 
as  the  ruffian  Virocq. 

"  Bring  him  out,  then  ! "  commanded  one  with  the  strap  of  a 
colonel  upon  his  shoulders.     "  Let  his  trial  proceed  at  once  !  " 

Maynard  supposed  it  to  he  himself.  He  was  mistaken.  It  was 
the  man  more  noted  than  he — more  dangerous  to  the  aspiration? 
of  the  Empire.     It  was  L . 

A  large  drum  stood  in  the  open  courtyard,  with  half  a  dozen 
chairs  around  it.  On  its  head  was  an  inkstand,  pens,  and  paper. 
They  were  the  symbols  of  a  court-martial. 

They  were  only  used  as  shams.  The  paper  was  not  stained 
with  the  record  of  that  foul  proceeding.  The  pen  was  not  even 
dipped  in  the  ink.  President  and  members,  judge,  advocate,  and 
recorder,  were  all  half-intoxicated.  All  demanded  blood,  and 
had  determined  on  shedding  it. 

Of  the  trial,  informal  as  it  was,  Maynard  was  not  a  spectator 
The  door  had  been  re-closed  upon  him ;  and  he  stood  listening 
behind  it. 

Not  for  long.  Before  ten  minutes  had  elapsed,  there  came 
through  the  keyhole  a  simple  word  that  told  him  his  fellow- 
prisoner  was  condemned.     It  was  the  word  "  Coupable!" 

It  was  quick  followed  by  a  fearful  phrase  :  "  Tirez  au  moment !  ' 

There  were  some  words  of  remonstrance  which  Maynard  could 
hear  spoken  by  his  late  fellow-prisoner ;  among  them  the  phrase 
"  Cest  un  assassinat  1 " 

They  were  followed  by  a  shuffling  sound — the  tread  as  of  9 
troop  hurrying  into  line. 

There  was  an  interval  of  silence,  like  a  lull  in  the  resting  storm. 

It  was  short—  only  for  a  few  seconds. 

It  was  broken  by  a  shout  that  filled  the  whole  court,  though 
proceeding  only  from  a  single  voice  !  It  was  that  shout  that  had 
more  than  once  driven  a  king  from  his  throne,  but  was  now  to 
be  the  pretext  for  establishing  an  Empire  ! 

"  Vive  la  republique  rouge  ! "  were  the  last  words  of  the  heroic 
L ,  as  he  bared  his  breast  to  the  bullets  of  his  assassins  1 

"  Tirez  I M  cried  a  voice,  which  Maynard  recognised  as  that  of 


Death  upon  the  Drum-Head.  191 

the  sous-lieutenant  Virocq;  its  echo  around  the  walls  overtaken 
and  drowned  by  the  deadly  rattle  it  had  invoked  ! 

It  was  a  strange  time  for  exultation  over  such  a  dastardly  deed. 
But  that  courtyard  was  filled  with  strange  men.  More  like  fiends 
were  they  as  they  waved  their  shakoes  in  air,  answering  the  de- 
fiance of  the  fallen  man  with  a  crv  that  te tokened  the  &1)  0' 
France ! 

u  Vivt  rEmpereurt* 


CHAPTER  XXXVI*!. 

THE   TWO    FLAGS. 

Listening  inside  his  cell,  hearing  little  of  what  was  said,  but 
comprehending  all,  Maynard  had  become  half  frantic. 

The  man  he  had  so  lately  embraced — whose  name  he  had  long 
known  and  honoured — to  be  thus  hurried  out  of  the  world  like 
a  condemned  dog  ! 

He  began  to  believe  himself  dreaming  1 

But  he  had  heard  the  protesting  cry,  "  Cest  un  assassinat /" 

He  had  repeated  it  himself,  striking  his  heels  against  the  door 
in  hopes  of  effecting  a  diversion  or  delay. 

He  kept  repeating  it,  with  other  speeches,  till  his  voice  became 
drowned  in  the  detonation  of  that  death-dealing  volley. 

And  once  again  he  gave  utterance  to  it  after  the  echoes  had 
ceased,  and  the  courtyard  became  quiet.  It  was  heard  by  the 
members  of  the  court-martial  outside. 

"  You've  got  a  madman  there ! "  said  the  presiding  officer. 
"Who  is  it,  Virocq?" 

.  "  One  of  the  same,"  answered  the  sous-lieutenant  of  Zouaves. 
w  A  fellow  as  full  of  sedition  as  the  one  just  disposed  ol" 

"  Do  you  know  his  name  ?  " 

*  No,  Colonel.     He's  a  stranger — a  foreigner." 

*  Of  what  country  ?  " 

"  Anglais — Ame'ricain.  He's  been  brought  in  from  the  Boult. 
vards.     My  men  took  him  up,  and  by  my  orders.'' 

"For  what?" 

"  Interfering  with  their  duty.  That  isn't  all.  I  chanced  to  see 
him  last  night  in  the  Cafe  de  Mille  Colonnes.  He  was  there 
speaking  against  the  government,  and  expressing  pity  for  pool 
France." 

u  Indeed  1" 

"I  should  have  answered  him  upon  the  spot,  mon  Colonel, 


The  Two  Flags.  193 


but  some  of  ours  interfered  to  shield  him,  on  the  excuse  of  his 
being  a  stranger." 

"  That's  no  reason  why  he  should  be  suffered  to  talk  sedition 
here." 

"  I  know  it,  Colonel." 

"  Are  you  ready  to  swear  he  has  done  so  ?  n 

"  I  am  ready.  A  score  of  people  were  present  You  hear  how 
he  talks  now  ?  " 

"True— true  !  "  answered  the  President  of  the  court.  "  Bring 
him  before  us  !  His  being  a  stranger  shan't  shield  him.  It's  not  a 
time  to  be  nice  about  nationalities.  English  or  American,  such  a 
tongue  must  be  made  silent.  Comrades  ! "  continued  he  in  a  low 
tone  to  the  other  members,  "  this  fellow  has  been  witness  to — 
you  understand  ?  He  must  be  tried  ;  and  if  Virocq's  charges  are 
sufficient,  should  be  silenced.     You  understand  ?  " 

A  grim  assent  was  given  by  the  others,  who  knew  they  were 
but  mocking  justice.  For  that  they  had  been  specially  selected 
— above  all,  their  president,  who  was  the  notorious  Colonel 
Gardotte. 

Inside  his  cell  Maynard  could  hear  but  little  of  what  was  said. 
The  turbulence  was  still  continued  in  the  streets  outside— the 
fusillade,  and  the  firing  of  cannon.  Other  prisoners  were  being 
brought  into  the  courtyard,  that  echoed  the  tread  of  troops  and 
the  clanking  of  steel  scabbards.     There  was  noise  everywhere. 

Withal,  a  word  or  two  coming  through  the  keyhole  sounded 
ominous  in  his  ears.  He  had  seen  the  ruffian  Virocq,  and  knew 
that  beside  such  a  itfan  there  must  be  danger. 

Still  he  had  no  dread  of  being  submitted  to  any  very  severe 
punishment — much  less  a  trial  for  his  life.  He  supposed  he 
would  be  kept  in  prison  till  the  emeute  had  passed  over,  and  ther. 
examined  for  an  act  he  was  prepared  to  justify,  and  for  which 
military  men  could  not  otherwise  than  acquit  him.  He  was  only 
chafing  at  the  outrage  he  had  endured,  and  the  detention  he 
was  enduring.  He  little  knew  the  nature  of  that  emeute,  nor  its 
design. 

In  his  experience  of  honest  soldiery,  he  was  incapable  of  com- 
prehending the  character  of  the  Franco-Algerine  brigands  into 
whose  hands  he  had  fallen. 


i94  The  Child  Wtf*. 


He  had  been  startled  by  the  assassination — for  he  could  call  it 
by  no  other  name — of  his  fellow  prisoner.  Still  the  latter  had 
stood  in  a  certain  relationship  to  the  men  who  had  murdered  him 
that  could  not  apply  to  himself.  Moreover,  he  was  a  stranger, 
and  not  answerable  to  them  for  his  political  leanings.  He  should 
appeal  to  his  own  country's  flag  for  protection. 

It  did  not  occur  to  him  that,  in  the  midst  of  a  revolution,  and 
among  such  reckless  executioners,  no  flag  might  be  regarded. 

He  had  but  little  time  to  reflect  thus.  While  he  was  yet  burn- 
ing with  indignation  at  the  atrocious  tragedy  just  enacted,  the 
door  of  his  cell  was  once  rtfore  flung  open,  and  he  was  dragged 
out  into  the  presence  of  the  court. 

"Your  name?"  haughtily  demanded  the  President 

Maynard  made  answer  by  giving  it 

"  Of  what  country  ?  " 

"  An  Irishman — a  British  subject,  if  you  prefer  it." 

"  It  matters  not,  monsieur  !  All  are  alike  here ;  more  especially 
in  times  like  these.  We  can  make  no  distinction  among  those 
who  sow  sedition.    What  is  your  accusation,  Lieutenant  Virocq?" 

With  a  tissue  of  falsehoods,  such  as  might  have  brought  blushes 
to  the  cheek  of  a  harlot,  the  Zouave  officer  told  his  story. 

Maynard  was  almost  amazed  with  its  lying  ingenuity.  He  dis- 
dained to  contradict  it. 

"  What's  the  use,  messieurs  ?  "  he  said,  addressing  himself  to 
the  court.  "  I  do  not  acknowledge  your  right  to  try  me — least 
of  all  by  a  drum-head  court-martial.  I  call  upon  you  to  suspend 
these  proceedings.     I  appeal  to  the  Embassy  of  my  country  !  " 

"We  have  no  time  for  application  to  Embassies,  monsieur. 
You  may  acknowledge  our  right  or  not — just  as  it  pleases  you 
We  hold  and  intend  exercising  it  And  notably  on  your  nob;  ■ 
self." 

The  ruffian  was  even  satirical. 

"  Gentlemen,"  he  continued,  addressing  himself  to  the  other 
members.  "  you've  heard  the  charge  and  the  defence.  Is  the 
accused  guilty,  or  not?" 

The  vote  was  taken,  beginning  with  a  scurvy-looking  sous- 
lieutenant,  the  junior  of  the  court.  This  creature,  knowing  why 
was  expected  of  him,  pronounced  : 


The  Two  Flags.  195 


*Covpdbkln 

The  terrible  word  went  round  the  drum,  without  a  dissentient 
voice,  and  was  quick  followed  by  the  still  more  terrible  phrase, 
pronounced  by  the  President : 

"  Condcumi'e  d  mort /" 

Maynard  started,  as  if  a  shot  had  been  fired  at  him.  Once  mere 
fid  he  mutter  to  himself: 

"Am  I  dreaming?" 

But  no,  the  bleeding  corpse  of  his  late  fellow-prisoner,  seen  in 
a  corner  of  the  yard,  was  too  real.  So,  too,  the  serious,  scowling 
faces  before  him,  with  the  platoon  of  uniformed  executioners 
standing  a  little  apart,  and  making  ready  to  carry  out  the  mur- 
derous decree ! 

Everything  around  told  him  it  was  no  dream — no  jest,  but  a 
dread  appalling  reality ! 

No  wonder  it  appalled  him.  No  wonder  that  in  this  hour  of 
peril  he  should  recall  those  words  late  heard,  "  I'll  come  to  you ! 
I  will  come !  "  No  wonder  his  glance  turned  anxiously  towards 
the  entrance  door. 

But  she  who  had  spoken  them  came  not.  Even  if  she  had, 
what  could  she  have  done  ?  A  young  girl,  an  innocent  child, 
what  would  her  intercession  avail  with  those  merciless  men  who 
had  made  up  their  minds  to  his  execution  ? 

She  could  not  know  where  they  had  taken  him.  In  the 
crowded,  turbulent  street,  or  while  descending  to  it,  she  must 
have  lost  sight  of  him,  and  her  inquiries  would  be  answered  too 
late  ! 

He  had  no  hopes  of  her  coming  there.     None  of  ever  again 

eing  her,  on  this  side  the  grave  1 

The  thought  was  agony  itself.  It  caused  him  to  turn  like  ft 
tiger  upon  judge  and  accuser,  and  give  tongue  to  the  wrath  swell- 
ing within  his  bosom. 

His  speeches  were  met  only  with  jeers  and  laughter. 

And  soon  they  were  unheeded.  Fresh  prisoners  were  being 
brought  in— fresh  victims  like  himself,  to  be  condemned  over  the 
drum  1 

The  court  no  longer  claimed  his  attendance. 

He  was  left  to  Virocq  and  his  uniformed  executioners. 


196  The  Child  Wife, 


Two  of  these  laying  hold,  forced  him  up  against  the  wall,  close 
to  the  corpse  of  the  Red  Republican. 

He  was  manacled,  and  could  make  no  resistance.  None  would 
have  availed  him. 

The  soldiers  stood  waiting  for  the  command  "  Tirez  /  " 

In  another  instant  it  would  have  been  heard,  for  it  was  form- 
ing on  the  lips  of  the  Zouave  lieutenant. 

Fate  willed  it  otherwise.  Before  it  could  be  given,  the  outer 
door  opened,  admitting  a  man  whose  presence  caused  a  sudden 
suspension  of  the  proceedings. 

Hurrying  across  the  courtyard,  he  threw  himself  between  the 
soldiers  and  their  victim,  at  the  same  time  drawing  a  flag  from  be- 
neath his  coat,  and  spreading  it  over  the  condemned  man. 

Even  the  drunken  Zouaves  dared  not  fire  through  that  flag.  It 
was  the  Royal  Standard  of  England  ! 

But  there  was  a  double  protection  for  the  prisoner.  Almost 
at  the  same  instant  another  man  stepped  hastily  across  the  court- 
yard and  flouted  a  second  flag  in  thf  eyes  of  the  disappointed 
executioners  ! 

It  claimed  equal  respect,  for  it  was  the  banner  of  the  Stars  and 
Stripes — the  emblem  of  the  only  true  Republic  on  earth. 

Maynard  had  served  under  both  flags,  and  for  a  moment  he 
felt  his  affections  divided. 

He  knew  not  to  whom  he  was  indebted  for  the  last ;  but  when 
he  reflected  who  had  sent  the  first — for  it  was  Sir  George  Vernon 
who  bore  it — his  heart  trembled  with  a  joy  far  sweeter  than  could 
have  been  experienced  by  the  mere  thought  of  delivery  from 
death! 


CHAPTER   XXXIX. 

ONCE   MORE    IN   WESTBOURNE. 

Once  more  in  the  British  metropolis,  Mr.  Swinton  was  seated  in 

hjs  room. 

It  was  the  same  set  of  "  furnished  apartments,"  containing  that 
cane  chair  with  which  he  had  struck  his  ill-starred  wife. 
She  was  there,  too,  though  not  seated  upon  the  chair. 
Reclined  along  a  common  horse-hair  sofa,  with  squab  and 
cushions  hard  and  scuffed,  she  was  reading  one  of  De  Kock's 
novels,  in  translation.  Fan  was  not  master  of  the  French 
tongue,  though  skilled  in  many  of  those  accomplishments  for 
which  France  has  obtained  special  notoriety. 

It  was  after  breakfast  time,  though  the  cups  and  saucers  were 
still  upon  the  table. 

A  common  white-metal  teapot,  the  heel  of  a  half-quartern  loaf, 
the  head  and  tail  of  a  herring,  seen  upon  a  blue  willow  pattern 
plate,  told  that  the  meal  had  not  been  epicurean. 

Swinton  was  smoking  "  bird's-eye "  in  a  briar-root  pipe.  It 
would  have  been  a  cigar,  had  his  exchequer  allowed  it. 

Never  in  his  life  had  this  been  so  low.  He  had  spent  his  last 
shilling  in  pursuit  of  the  Girdwoods — in  keeping  their  company 
in  Paris,  from  which  they,  as  he  himself,  had  just  returned  to 
London. 

As  yet  success  had  not  crowned  his  scheme,  but  appeared  dis» 
tant  as  ever.  The  storekeeper's  widow,  notwithstanding  her 
aspirations  after  a  titled  alliance,  was  from  a  country  whose  people 
are  proverbially  "cute."  She  was,  at  all  events,  showing  her- 
self prudent,  as  Mr.  Swinton  discovered  in  a  conversation  held 
with  her  on  the  eve  of  their  departure  from  Paris. 

It  was  on  a  subject  of  no  slight  importance,  originating  in  a 
proposal  on  his  part  to  become  her  son-in-law.  It  was  introduc- 
tory to  an  offer  he  intended  making  to  the  young  lady  hexselt 

¥0 


198  The  Child  Wift. 


But  the  offer  was  not  made,  Mrs.  Girdwood  having  given  rea- 
sons for  its  postponement. 

They  seemed  somewhat  unsubstantial,  leaving  him  to  suppose 
he  might  still  hope. 

The  true  reason  was  not  made  known  to  him,  which  was,  that 
the  American  mother  had  become  suspicious  about  his  patent  oi 
mobility.  After  all,  he  might  not  be  a  lord.  And  this,  notwith- 
standing his  perfect  playing  of  the  part,  which  the  quondam 
guardsman,  having  jostled  a  good  deal  against  lords,  was  enabled 
to  do. 

She  liked  the  man  much — he  flattered  her  sufficiently  to  de- 
serve it — and  used  every  endeavour  to  make  her  daughter  like 
him.  But  she  had  determined,  before  things  should  go  any  fur- 
ther, to  know  something  of  his  family.  There  was  something 
strange  in  his  still  travelling  incognito.  The  reasons  he  assigned 
for  it  were  not  satisfactory.  Upon  this  point  she  must  get  thor- 
oughly assured.  England  was  the  place  to  make  the  inquiry, 
and  thither  had  she  transported  herself  and  her  belongings — as 
before,  putting  up  at  the  aristocratic  Clarendon. 

To  England  Swinton  had  followed,  allowing  only  a  day  to 
elapse. 

By  staying  longer  in  Paris,  he  would  have  been  in  pawn.  He 
had  just  sufficient  cash  to  clear  himself  from  the  obscure  hotel 
where  he  had  stopped,  pay  for  a  Boulogne  boat,  and  a  "  bus  " 
from  London  Bridge  to  his  lodgings  in  far  Westbourne,  where  he 
found  his  Fan  not  a  shilling  richer  than  himself.  Hence  that 
herring  for  breakfast,  eaten  on  the  day  after  his  return. 

He  was  poor  in  spirits  as  in  purse.  Although  Mrs.  Girdwood 
had  not  stated  the  true  reason  for  postponing  her  daughter's  re. 
ception  of  his  marriage  proposal,  he  could  conjecture  it.  He  felt 
pretty  sure  that  the  widow  had  come  to  England  to  make  inquiries 
about  him. 

And  what  must  they  result  in  ?  Exposure  !  How  could  it  be 
otherwise  ?  His  name  was  known  in  certain  circles  of  London. 
So  also  his  character.  If  she  should  get  into  these,  his  marriage 
scheme  would  be  frustrated  at  once  and  for  ever. 

And  he  had  become  sufficiently  acquainted  with  her  shrewd- 
ness to  know  she  would  never  accept  him  for  a  son- in  law,  with- 


Otu,e  more  in    Westbourne.  199 

out  being  certain  about  the  title — which  in  her  eyes  alone  rendered 

him  eligible. 

If  his  game  was  not  yet  up,  the  cards  left  in  his  hand  were 
poor.     More  than  ever  did  they  require  skilful  playing. 

What  should  be  his  next  move  ? 

It  was  about  this  his  brain  was  busy,  as  he  sat  pulling  away  t 
his  pipe. 

"  Any  one  called  since  I've  been  gone  ?"  he  asked  of  his  wife 
without  turning  toward  her. 

Had  he  done  so,  he  might  have  observed  a  slight  start  caused 
by  the  inquiry.     She  answered,  hesitatingly : 

"  Oh  !  no — yes  —now  I  think  of  it     I  had  a  visitor — one." 

"Who?" 

"Sir  Robert  Cottrell.  You  remember  our  meeting  him  at 
Brighton  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I  remember  it.  Not  likely  to  forget  the  name 
of  the  puppy.     How  came  he  to  call  ?  " 

"He  expected  to  see  you." 

"  Indeed,  did  he !     How  did  he  know  where  we  were  living  ?  " 

"  Oh,  that !  I  met  him  one  day  as  I  was  passing  through 
Kensington  Gardens,  near  the  end  of  the  Long  Walk.  He  asked 
me  where  we  were  staying.  At  first  I  didn't  intend  telling  him. 
But  he  said  he  wanted  particularly  to  see  you;  and  so  I  gave  him 
your  address." 

"  I  wasn't  at  home  1 " 

u  I  told  him  that ;  but  said  I  expected  you  every  day.  He 
came  to  inquire  if  you  had  come  back." 

u  Did  he  ?  What  a  wonderful  deal  he  cared  about  my  coming 
back.  In  the  Long  Walk  you  met  him  ?  I  suppose  you  have 
been  showing  yourself  in  the  Row  every  day  ?  " 

''No  I  haven't,  Richard.  I've  only  been  there  once  or  twice- 
Vou  can't  blame  me  for  that  ?  I'd  like  to  know  who  could  stay 
everlastingly  here,  in  these  paltry  apartments,  with  that  shrewish 
"amdlady  constantly  popping  out  and  in,  as  if  to  see  whether  I'd 
carried  off  the  contents  of  our  trunks.  Heaven  knows,  it's  a 
wretched  existence  at  best  „  but  absolutely  hideous  inside  these 
^wgings  !  " 

trancing  around  the  cheaply-famished  parlour,  seeing  the  head 


aoo  The  Child  Wife. 


and  tail  of  the  herring,  with  the  other  scraps  of  their  poor  repast, 
3winton  could  not  be  otherwise  than  impressed  with  the  truth  of 
his  wife's  words.  , 

Their  tone,  too,  had  a  satisfying  effect.     It  was  no  longer  that    / 
of  imperious  contradiction,  such  as  he  had  been  accustomed  to  / 
for  twelve  months  after  marriage.      This  had  ceased  on  that  day/ 
when  the  leg  of  a  chair  coming  in  contact  with  his  belovedV 
•rown  had  left  a  slight  cicatrice  upon  her  left  temple — like  a  staii 
in  statuary  marble.    From  that  hour  the  partner  of  his  bosom  had 
shown  herself  a  changed  woman — at  least  toward  himself.     Not- 
withstanding the  many  quarrels,  and  recriminative  bickerings,  that 
had  preceded  it,  it  was  the  first  time  he  had  resorted  to  personal 
violence.     And  it  had  produced  its  effect.     Coward  as  she  knew 
him  to  be,  he  had  proved  himself  brave  enough  to  bully  her. 
She  had  feared  him  ever  since.     Hence  her  trepidation  as  she 
made  answer  to  his  inquiry  as  to  whether  any  one  had  called. 

There  was  a  time  when  Frances  Wilder  would  not  have 
trembled  at  such  a  question,  nor  stammered  in  her  reply. 

She  started  again,  and  again  showed  signs  of  confusion,  as  the 
shuffling  of  feet  on  the  flags  outside  was  followed  by  a  knock  at 
the  door. 

It  was  a  double  one ;  not  the  violent  repeat  of  the  postman, 
but  the  rat-tat-tat  given  either  by  a  gentleman  or  lady — from  its 
gentleness  more  like  the  latter. 

"Who  can  it  be?"  asked  Swinton,  taking  the  pipe  from  be- 
tween his  teeth.     "  Nobody  for  us,  I  hope." 

In  London,  Mr.  Swinton  did  not  long  for  unexpected  visitors 
He  had  too  many  "  kites  "  abroad,  to  relish  the  ring  of  the  door- 
bell, or  the  more  startling  summons  of  the  knocker. 

u  Can't  be  for  us,"  said  his  wife,  in  a  tone  of  mock  confidence. 
**  There's  no  one  likely  to  be  calling ;  unless  some  of  your  old 
friends  have  seen  you  as  you  came  home.  Did  you  meet  any 
one  on  the  way  ?  " 

"  No,  nobody  saw  me,"  gruffly  returned  the  husband. 

"There's  a  family  upstairs — in  the  drawing-rooms.  I  suppose 
it's  for  them,  or  the  people  of  the  house." 

The  supposition  was  contradicted  by  a  dialogue  heard  outside, 
in  the  hall.     It  was  as  follows  : 


Once  more  in   Westbourne.  30 

"  Mrs.  Swinton  at  home  ?  " 

The  inquiry  was  in  a  man's  voice,  who  appeared  to  have  passed 
in  from  the  steps. 

"  Yis,  sirr  I "  was  the  reply  of  the  Irish  janitress,  who  had 
answered  the  knock. 

"  Give  my  card ;  and  ask  the  lady  if  I  can  see  her.M 

"  By  Jove !  that's  Cottrell  1 "  muttered  the  ex-guardsman 
recognising  the  voice. 

"Sir  Robert  Cottrell"  was  upon  the  card  brought  in  by  the 
maid-of-all-work. 

"  Show  him  in  1 n  whispered  Swinton  to  the  servant,  without 
waiting  to  ask  permission  from  Fan ;  who,  expressing  surprise  at 
the  unexpected  visit,  sprang  to  her  feet,  and  glided  back  into  the 
bedroom. 

There  was  a  strangeness  in  the  fashion  of  his  wife's  retreat, 
which  the  husband  could  scarce  help  perceiving.  He  took  no 
notice  of  it,  however,  his  mind  at  the  moment  busied  with  a  useful 
idea  that  had  suddenly  suggested  itself. 

Little  as  he  liked  Sir  Robert  Cottrell,  or  much  as  he  may  have 
had  imaginings  about  the  object  of  his  visit,  Swinton  at  that 
moment  felt  inclined  to  receive  him.  The  odour  of  the  salt 
herring  was  in  his  nostrils ;  and  he  was  in  a  mood  to  prefer  the 
perfume  that  exhales  from  the  cambric  handkerchief  of  a  d6- 
bonnaire  baronet — such  as  he  knew  Sir  Robert  to  be. 

It  was  with  no  thought  of  calling  his  quondam  Brighton 
acquaintance  to  account  that  he  directed  the  servant  to  show  him 
in. 

And  in  he  was  shown. 


CHAPTER  XL. 

A   CAUTIOUS    BARONET. 

The  baronet  looked  a  little  blank,  as  the  open  parlour-doox 
discovered  inside  a  "  party "  he  had  no  intention  of  calling 
upon. 

Accustomed  to  such  surprises,  however,  he  was  not  discon 
certed.  He  had  some  knowledge  of  the  ex-guardsman's  character. 
He  knew  he  was  in  ill-luck ;  and  that  under  such  circumstances 
he  would  not  be  exactingly  inquisitive. 

"Aw,  Swinton,  my  dear  fellaw,"  he  exclaimed,  holding  out 
his  kid-gloved  hand.  "  Delighted  to  see  you  again.  Madam  told 
me  she  expected  you  home.  I  just  dropped  in,  hoping  to  find 
you  returned.     Been  to  Paris,  I  hear  ?  " 

"  I  have,"  said  Swinton,  taking  the  hand  with  a  show  of  cor- 
diality. 

"Terrible  times  over  there.  Wonder  you  came  off  with  a 
whole  skin  ! " 

"  By  Jove,  it's  about  all  I  brought  off  with  me." 

"  Aw,  indeed !     What  mean  you  by  that  ?  " 

"  Well ;  I  went  over  to  get  some  money  that's  been  long  owing 
me.     Instead  of  getting  it,  I  lost  what  little  I  carried  across." 

"  How  did  you  do  that,  my  dear  fellaw  ?  " 

"  Well,  the  truth  is,  I  was  tempted  into  card-playing  with  som? 
French  officers  I  chanced  to  meet  at  the  Mille  Colonnes.  It  w:u> 
their  cursed  ecarie.  They  knew  the  game  better  than  I ;  and 
very  soon  cleared  me  out.  I  had  barely  enough  to  bring  me 
back  again.  I  thank  God  I'm  here  once  more ;  though  how  I'm 
going  to  weather  it  this  winter,  heaven  only  knows  !  You'll  ex- 
cuse me,  Sir  Robert,  for  troubling  you  with  this  confession  of  my 
private  affairs.  I'm  in  such  a  state  of  mind,  I  scarce  know  what 
I'm  saying.  Confound  France  and  Frenchmen  !  I  don't  gc 
among  them  again ;  not  if  I  know  it" 


A   Cautious  Baronet.  203 

Sir  Robert  Cottrell,  though  supposed  to  be  rich,  was  not 
accustomed  to  squandering  money — upon  men.  With  women  he 
was  less  penurious ;  though  with  these  only  a  spendthrift,  when 
their  smiles  could  not  be  otherwise  obtained.  He  was  one  of 
those  gallants  who  prefer  making  conquests  at  the  cheapest 
possible  rates;  and,  when  made,  rarely  spend  money  to  secure 
them.     Like  the  butterfly,  he  liked  flitting  from  flower  to  flower. 

That  he  had  not  dropped  in  hoping  to  find  Mr.  Swinton,  but 
had  come  on  purpose  to  visit  his  wife,  the  craven  husband  c.:ew 
just  as  well  as  if  he  had  openly  avowed  it.  And  the  motive,  ~jo  ; 
all  the  more  from  such  a  shallow  excuse. 

It  was  upon  the  strength  of  this  knowledge  that  the  ex-guards- 
man was  so  communicative  about  his  financial  affairs.  It  was  a 
delicate  way  of  making  it  known,  that  he  would  not  be  offended 
by  the  offer  of  a  trifling  loan. 

Sir  Robert  was  in  a  dilemma.  A  month  earlier  he  would  have 
much  less  minded  it  But  during  that  month  he  had  met  Mrs. 
Swinton  several  times,  in  the  Long  Walk,  as  elsewhere.  He  had 
been  fancying  his  conquest  achieved,  and  did  not  feel  disposed 
to  pay  for  a  triumph  already  obtained. 

For  this  reason  he  was  slow  to  perceive  the  hint  so  delicately 
thrown  out  to  him. 

Swinton  reflected  on  a  way  to  make  it  more  understandable. 
The  debris  of  the  frugal  dejeuner  came  to  his  assistance. 

"  Look  ! "  said  he,  pointing  to  the  picked  bones  of  the  herring 
with  an  affectation  of  gaiety,  "  look  there,  Sir  Robert  1  You 
might  fancy  it  to  be  Friday.  That  fine  fish  was  purchased  with 
the  last  penny  in  my  pocket.  To-morrow  is  Friday;  and  I 
suppose  I  shall  have  to  keep  Lent  still  more  austerely.  Ha ! 
ha!  ha!" 

There  was  no  resisting  such  an  appeal  as  this.  The  close-fisted 
aristocrat  felt  himself  fairly  driven  into  a  corner. 

"  My  dear  fellaw  1 "  said  he,  "  don't  talk  in  that  fashion.  If  a 
fiver  will  be  of  any  service  to  you,  I  hope  you  will  do  me  the 
favour  to  accept  it     I  know  you  won't  mind  it  from  me  ?  n 

M  Sir  Robert,  it  is  too  kind.     I— -I " 

M  Don't  mention  it  I  shouldn't  think  of  offering  you  such  a 
paltry   trifle ;  but  just    now  ray  affairs  are   a  little  queerish.     I 


204  The  Child  Wife. 


dropped  a  lot  upon  the  last  Derby ;  and  my  lawyer  is  trying  to 
raise  a  further  mortgage  on  my  Devonshire  estate.  If  that  can  be 
effected,  things  will,  of  course,  be  different  Meanwhile,  take 
this.  It  may  pass  you  over  your  present  difficulty,  till  something 
turns  up." 

"Sir  Robert,  I " 

"  No  apology,  Swinton  !  It  is  I  who  owe  it,  for  the  shabby 
sum." 

The  ex-guardsman  ceased  to  resist ;  and  the  five-pound  note, 
pressed  into  his  palm  was  permitted  to  remain  there. 

"  By  the  bye,  Swinton,"  said  the  baronet,  as  if  to  terminate  the 
awkward  scene  by  obliging  the  borrower  in  a  more  business-like 
way,  "why  don't  you  try  to  get  something  from  the  Government? 
Excuse  a  fellaw  for  taking  the  liberty;  but  it  seems  to  me,  a  man 
of  your  accomplishments  ought  to  stand  a  chance." 

"  Not  the  slightest,  Sir  Robert !  I  have  no  interest ;  and  if  I 
had,  there's  that  ugly  affair  that  got  me  out  of  the  Guards.  You 
know  the  story ;  and  therefore  I  needn't  tell  it  you.  That  would 
be  sure  to  come  up  if  I  made  any  application." 

"  All  stuff,  my  dear  fellaw  !  Don't  let  that  stand  in  your  way. 
It  might,  if  you  wanted  to  get  into  the  Household,  or  be  made  a 
bishop.     You  don't  aspire  to  either,  I  presume  ?  " 

The  ex-guardsman  gave  a  lugubrious  laugh. 

"  No  !  "  he  said.  "  I'd  be  contented  with  something  less. 
Just  now  my  ambition  don't  soar  extravagantly  high." 

"  Suppose  you  try  Lord who  has  Government  influence  ? 

In  these  troublous  times  there's  no  end  of  employment,  and  for 
men  whose  misfortunes  don't  need  to  be  called  to  remembrance. 
Yours  won't  stand  in  the  way.  I  know  his  lordship  personally. 
He's  not  at  all  exacting." 

"  You  know  him,  Sir  Robert  ?  " 

•*  Intimately.  And  if  I'm  not  mistaken,  he's  just  the  man  to 
serve  you  ;  that  is,  by  getting  you  some  appointment.  The  diplo- 
matic service  has  grown  wonderfully,  since  the  breaking  out  of 
these  revolutions.  More  especially  the  secret  branch  of  it  I've 
reason  to  know  that  enormous  sums  are  now  spent  upon  it 
Then,  why  shouldn't  you  try  to  get  a  pull  out  of  the  secret  service 
cheit?M 


A  Cautious  Baronet.  205 

Swinton  relit  his  pipe,  and  sat  cogitating. 

"A  pipe  don't  become  a  guardsman,"  jokingly  remarked  his 
guest.  "The  favourites  of  the  Foreign  Office  smoke  only  re- 
galias." 

Swinton  received  this  sally  with  a  smile,  that  showed  the  dawn- 
ing of  a  new  hope. 

"Take  one?"  continued  the  baronet,  presenting  his  gold-clasped 
case. 

Swinton  pitched  the  briar-root  aside,  and  set  fire  to  the  cigar. 

"  You  are  right,  Sir  Robert,"  he  said ;  "  I  ought  to  try  for 
something.  It's  very  good  of  you  to  give  me  the  advice.  But 
how  am  I  to  follow  it  ?  I  have  no  acquaintance  with  the  noble- 
man you  speak  of;  nor  have  any  of  my  friends." 

"  Then  you  don't  count  me  as  one  of  them  ?  " 

"  Dear  Cottrell  !  Don't  talk  that  way  !  After  what's  passed 
between  us,  I  should  be  an  ungrateful  fellow  if  I  didn't  esteem 
you  as  the  first  of  them — perhaps  the  only  friend  I  have  left," 

"Well,  I've  spoken  plainly.     Haven't  I  said  that  I  know  Lord 

well  enough  to  give  you  a  letter  of  introduction  to  him  ?     I 

won't  say  it  will  serve  any  purpose  ;  >ou  must  take  your  chances 
of  that.  I  can  only  promise  that  he  will  receive  you  ;  and  if 
you're  not  too  particular  as  to  the  nature  of  the  employment,  I 
think  he  may  get  you  something.  You  understand  me,  Swin- 
ton?" 

"  I  particular  !  Not  likely,  Sir  Robert,  living  in  this  mean 
room,  with  the  remembrance  of  that  luxurious  breakfast  I've  just 
eaten — myself  and  my  poor  wife  !  " 

"  Aw — by  the  way,  I  owe  madam  an  apology  for  having  so 
long  neglected  to  ask  after  her.     I  hope  she  is  well  ?  " 

"  Thank  you  !  Well  as  the  dear  child  can  be  expected,  with 
such  trouble  upon  us." 

"  Shall  I  not  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  her  ?  n 

The  visitor  asked  the  question  without  any  pretence  of  in- 
difference. He  felt  it — just  then,  not  desiring  to  encounter  her 
in  such  company. 

"  I  shall  see,  Sir  Robert,"  replied  the  husband,  rising  from  his 
chair,  and  going  toward  the  bedroom.  "I  rather  suspect  Fan's 
en  deshabille  at  this  hour  " 


206  The  Child   Wife. 


Sir  Robert  secretly  hflped  that  she  was.  Under  the  circum- 
stances, an  interview  with  her  could  only  be  awkward. 

His  wish  was  realize- 1.  She  was  not  only  en  deshabille,  but 
in  bed— with  a  sick  headache !  She  begged  that  the  baronet 
would  excuse  her  from  making  appearance  ! 

This  was  the  report  brought  back  from  the  bedroom  by  her 
go-between  of  a  husband.  It  remained  only  for  the  visitor  to 
make  good  his  promise  about  the  letter  of  introduction. 

He  drew  up  to  the  table,  and  wrote  it  out,  curre?ite  calamo. 

He  did  not  follow  the  usual  fashion,  by  leaving  the  envelope 
open.  There  was  a  clause  or  two  in  the  letter  he  did  not  desire 
the  ex-guardsman  to  become  acquainted  with.  It  concluded  with 
the  words  :  "  Mr.  Swinton  is  a  gentleman  who  would  suit  for  any 
service  your  lordship  may  be  pleased  to  obtain  for  him.  He  is  a 
disappointed  man.     .     .     ." 

Wetting  the  gum  with  the  tip  of  his  aristocratic  tongue,  he 
closed  the  envelope,  and  handed  the  epistle  to  his  host 

"  I  know,"  said  he,  "  Lord  A will  be  glad  to  serve  you. 

You  might  see  him  at  the  Foreign  Office ;  but  don't  go  there. 
There  are  too  many  fellaws  hanging  about,  who  had  better  not 
know  what  you're  after.  Take  it  to  his  lordship's  private  resi- 
dence in  Park  Lane.  In  a  case  like  yours,  I  know  he'd  prefer 
receiving  you  there.  You  had  better  go  at  once.  There  are 
so  many  chances  of  your  being  forestalled — a  host  of  applicants 
hungering  for  something  of  the  same.  His  lordship  is  likely  to 
be  at  home  about  three  in  the  afternoon.  I'll  call  here  soon 
after  to  learn  how  you've  prospered.  Bye,  my  dear  fellaw ! 
good-bye  ! " 

Re  gloving  his  slender  aristocratic  fingers,  the  baronet  with- 
drew—leaving the  ex-guardsman  in  possession  of  an  epistle  that 
might  have  much  influence  on  his  future  fate. 


CHAPTER  XLL 

A   SCENE   IN    PARK   LANE. 

In  Park  Lane,  as  all  know,  fronting  upon  Hyde  Park,  are  some 
of  the  finest  residences  in  London.  They  are  mansions,  mostly 
inhabited  by  England's  aristocracy ;  many  of  them  by  the 
proudest  of  its  nobility. 

•  •  *  •  • 

On  that  same  day  on  which  Sir  Robert  Cottrell  had  paid  his 
unintentional  visit  to  Mr.  Richard  Swinton,  at  the  calling  hour  of 
the  afternoon  an  open  park  phaeton,  drawn  by  a  pair  of  stylish 
ponies,  with  "  flowing  manes  and  tails,"  might  have  been  seen 
driving  along  Park  Lane,  and  drawing  up  in  front  of  one  of  its 
splendid  mansions,  well  known  to  be  that  of  a  nobleman  of  con- 
siderable distinction  among  his  class. 

The  ribbons  were  held  by  a  gentleman  who  appeared  capable 
of  manipulating  them  ;  by  his  side  a  lady  equally  suitable  to  the 
equipage ;  while  an  appropriate  boy  in  top-boots  and  buttons 
occupied  the  back  seat. 

Though  the  gentleman  was  young  and  handsome,  the  lady 
young  and  beautiful,  and  the  groom  carefully  got  up,  an  eye, 
skilled  in  livery  decoration,  could  have  told  the  turn-out  to  be 
one  hired  for  the  occasion. 

It  was  hired,  and  by  Richard  Swinton;  for  it  was  he  who 
wielded  the  whip,  and  his  wife  who  gave  grace  to  the  equipage. 

The  ponies  were  guided  with  such  skill  that  when  checked 
up  in  front  of  the  nobleman's  residence,  the  phaeton  stood  right 
under  the  drawing-room  windows. 

In  this  there  was  a  design. 

The  groom,  skipping  like  a  grasshopper  from  his  perch,  glided 
up  the  steps,  rang  the  bell,  and  made  the  usual  inquiry. 

His  lordship  was  "at  home." 


ao8  The  Child  Wife, 


"  You  take  the  reins,  Fan,"  said  Swinton,  stepping  out  of  the 
phaeton.  "  Keep  a  tight  hold  on  them,  and  don't  let  the  ponies 
move  from  the  spot  they're  in — not  so  much  as  an  inch  1 " 

Without  comprehending  the  object  of  this  exact  order,  Pan 
promised  to  obey  it. 

The  remembrance  of  more  than  one  scene,  in  which  she  had 
succumbed  to  ber  husband's  violence,  secured  compliance  with 
his  request. 

Having  made  it,  the  ex-guaidsman  ascended  the  steps,  pre- 
seated  his  card,  and  was  shown  into  the  drawing-room. 


CHAPTER  XLIL 

THE  POWER   OF  A  PRETTY   FACE. 

It  was  the  front  room  of  a  suite  into  which  Mr.  Swintot  UiA 
been  conducted — a  large  apartment  furnished  in  splendid  style. 

For  a  time  he  was  left  alone,  the  footman,  who  officiated, 
having  gone  off  with  his  card. 

Around  him  were  costly  decorations — objects  of  vertu  and 
luxe — duplicated  in  plate-glass  mirrors  over  the  mantel,  and  along 
the  sides  of  the  room,  extending  from  floor  to  ceiling. 

But  Mr.  Swinton  looked  not  at  the  luxurious  chattels,  nor  into 
the  mirrors  that  reflected  them! 

On  the  moment  of  his  being  left  to  himself,  he  glided  toward 
one  of  the  windows,  and  directed  his  glance  into  the  street. 

"  It  will  do,"  he  muttered  to  himself,  with  a  satisfied  air.  "Just 
in  the  right  spot,  and  Fan — isn't  she  the  thing  for  it  ?  By  Jove  ! 
she  shows  well.  Never  saw  her  look  better  in  her  life.  If  his 
lordship  be  the  sort  he's  got  the  name  of  being,  I  ought  to  get 
an  appointment  out  of  him.  Sweet  Fan  !  I've  made  five  pounds 
out  of  you  this  morning.  You're  worth  your  weight  in  gold,  or 
its  equivalent.  Hold  up  your  head,  my  chick  !  and  show  that 
pretty  face  of  yours  to  the  window !  You're  about  to  be 
examined,  and  as  I've  heard,  by  a  connoisseur.     Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  " 

The  apostrophe  was  soliloquized,  Fan  was  too  far  off  to  hear 
him. 

The  chuckling  laugh  that  followed  was  interrupted  by  the  re- 
entrance  of  the  footman,  who  announced  in  ceremonial  strain: 

"  His  lordship  will  see  you  in  the  library." 

The  announcement  produced  on  his  lordship's  visitor  the  effect 
of  a  cold-water  douche.  His  gaiety  forsook  him  with  the  sudden- 
ness of  a  "  shot" 

Nor  did  it  return  when  he  discovered  the  library  to  be  a  some- 
what sombre  apartment,  its  walls  bedecked  with  books,  and  the 


2io  The  Child  W*f* 


windows  looking  into  a  court-yard  at  the  back.  He  had  anti- 
cipated an  interview  in  the  drawing-room  that  commanded  a  view 
of  the  street. 

It  was  a  disappointment  to  be  regretted,  and,  combined  with 
the  quiet  gloom  of  the  chamber  into  which  he  had  been  ushered, 
argued  ill  for  the  success  of  his  application. 

"Your  business,  sir?"  demanded  the  august  personage  into 
whose  presence  he  had  penetrated. 

The  demand  was  not  made  in  a  tone  of  either  rudeness  or 

austerity.     Lord was  noted  for  a  suavity  of  manners,  that,  in 

the  eyes  of  the  uninitiated,  gave  him  a  character  for  benevolence ! 

In  answer  to  it,  the  ex-guardsman  presented  his  letter  of  intro- 
duction.    He  could  do  no  more,  and  stood  awaiting  the  result 

But  he  reflected  how  different  this  might  be  if  the  interview 
had  been  taking  place  in  the  drawing-room,  instead  of  that  dis- 
mal repository  of  books. 

"  I  am  sorry,  Mr.  Swinton,"  said  his  lordship,  after  reading  Sir 
Robert's  letter,  "  sorry,  indeed,  that  I  can  do  nothing  to  serve 
you.  I  don't  know  of  a  post  that  isn't  filled.  I  have  applicants 
coming  to  me  every  day,  thinking  I  can  do  something  for  them. 
I  should  have  been  most  happy  to  serve  any  friend  of  Sir  Robert 
Cottrell,  had  it  been  in  my  power.     I  assure  you  it  isn't" 

Richard  Swinton  was  disconcerted — the  more  so  that  he  had 
spent  thirty  shillings  in  chartering  the  pony  phaeton  with  its 
attendant  groom.  It  was  part  of  the  five  pounds  borrowed  from 
the  obliging  baronet.  It  would  be  so  much  cash  thrown  away — 
the  sprat  lost  without  catching  the  salmon. 

He  sto\)d  without  knowing  what  to  say.  The  interview  seemed 
tX  an  end — his  lordship  appearing  wearied  of  his  presence,  and 
wishing  him  to  be  gone. 

At  thi3  crisis  an  accident  came  to  his  aid. 

A  squadron  of  "  Coldstreams  "■  was  passing  along  the  Pant 
drive.  Their  bugle,  sounding  the  "  double  quick,"  was  heard  in 
the  interior  of  the  dwelling.  His  lordship,  to  ascertain  the  cause 
of  trie  military  movement,  sprang  up  from  the  huge  leathern 
chair,  in  which  he  had  been  seated,  and  passed  suddenly  into  the 
drawing-room,  leaving  Mr.  Swinton  outside  in  the  halL 

Through  the  window  Lord saw  the  dragoons  filing  past 


The  Power  of  a  Pretty  Face.  21 1 

But  his  glance  dwelt  not  long  upon  them.  Underneath,  and 
close  in  to  the  curb-stone,  was  an  object  to  his  eyes  a  hundred 
times  more  attractive  than  the  bright  uniforms  of  the  Guards.  It 
was  a  young  and  beautiful  lady,  seated  in  an  open  phaeton,  and 
holding  the  reins — as  if  waiting  for  some  one  who  had  gone  into 
a  house. 

It  was  in  front  of  his  own  house  ;  and  the  party  absent  from 
the  phaeton  must  be  inside.  It  should  be  Mr.  Swinton,  the  very 
good-looking  fellow  who  was  soliciting  him  for  an  appointment  1 

In  a  trice  the  applicant,  already  half  dismissed,  was  recalled 
into  his  presence — this  time  into  the  drawing-room. 

"By  the  way,  Mr.  Swinton,"  said  he,  "you  may  as  .well  leave 
me  your  address.     I'm  anxious  to  oblige  my  friend,  Sir  Robert ; 

and  although  I  can  speak  of  nothing  now,  who  knOws Ha  ! 

that  lady  in  the  carriage  below.     Is  she  of  your  belonging  ?  " 

"  My  wife,  your  lordship." 

"  What  a  pity  to  have  kept  her  waiting  outside  !  You  should 
have  brought  her  in  with  you." 

"  My  lord,  I  could  not  take  the  liberty  of  intruding." 

"  Oh,  nonsense  !  my  dear  sir  !  A  lady  can  never  intrude.  Well, 
leave  your  address ;  and  if  anything  should  turn  up,  be  sure  I 
shall  remember  you.     I  am  most  anxious  to  serve  Cottrell." 

Swinton  left  the  address  ;  and  with  an  obsequious  salute,  parted 
from  the  dispenser  of  situations. 

As  he  drove  back  along  the  pavement  of  Piccadilly,  he  reflected 
to  himself  that  the  pony  equipage  had  not  been  chartered  in 
vain. 

He  now  knew  the  character  of  the  man  to  whom  he  had 
Addressed  his  solicitation. 


CHAPTER  XLIII. 

TO   THE   COUNTRY. 

There  is  but  one  country  in  the  world  whef*  cou*/:ry-life   is 
thoroughly  understood,  and  truly  enjoyable.     It  is  Engiwid  ! 

True,  this  enjoyment  is  confined  to  the  few- -to  England's 
gentry.  Her  farmer  knows  nought  of  it;  her  labourer  still 
less. 

But  the  life  of  an  English  country  gentleman  learcs  little  to  be 
desired ! 

In  the  morning  he  has  the  chase,  or  the  sliooting  party,  complete 
in  their  kind,  and  both  varied  according  to  tho  character  of  the 
game.  In  the  evening  he  sits  down  to  a  dinner,  as  Lucullian  as 
French  cooks  can  make  it,  in  the  company  of  men  and  women 
the  most  accomplished  upon  earth. 

In  the  summer  there  are  excursions,  picnl-js,  "garden  parties"; 
and  of  late  years  the  grand  croquet  and  tenuis  gatherings — all  end- 
ing in  the  same  desirable  dinner,  with  sometimes  a  dance  in  the 
drawing-room,  to  the  family  music  of  the  piano;  on  rarer  occasions, 
to  the  more  inspiriting  strains  of  a  military  band,  brought  from  the 
nearest  barracks,  or  the  headquarters  of  volunteers,  yeomanry,  or 
militia. 

In  all  this  there  is  neither  noise  nor  confusion  ;  but  the  most 
perfect  quiet  and  decorum.  It  could  not  be  otherwise  in  a  society 
composed  of  the  flower  of  England's  people — its  nobility  and 
squirearchy — equal  in  the  social  scale — alike  spending  their  life  in 
the  cultivation  of  its  graces. 

It  was  not  strange  that  Captain  Maynard — a  man  with  but  few 
great  friends,  and  lost  to  some  of  these  through  his  republican 
proclivities—  should  feel  slightly  elated  on  receiving  an  invitation 
to  a  dinner  as  described. 

A  further  clause  in  the  note  told  him,  he  would  be  expected 
stay  a  few  days  at  the  house  of  his  host,  and  take  part  id 
partridge-shooting  that  had  but  lately  commenced 


To  the  Country.  213 

The  invitation  was  all  the  more  acceptable  coming  from  Sir 
George  Vernon,  of  Vernon  Hall,  near  Sevenoaks,  Kent. 

Maynard  had  not  seen  the  British  baronet  since  that  day  when 
the  British  flag,  flung  around  his  shoulders,  saved  him  from  being 
shot.  By  the  conditions  required  to  get  him  clear  of  his  Parisian 
scrape,  he  had  to  return  instanter  to  England,  in  the  metropolis 
of  which  he  had  ever  since  been  residing. 

Not  in  idleness.  Revolutions  at  an  end,  he  had  flung  aside 
his  sword,  and  taken  to  the  pen.  During  the  summer  he  had 
produced  a  romance,  and  placed  it  in  the  hands  of  a  publisher. 
He  was  expecting  it  soon  to  appear. 

He  had  lately  written  to  Sir  George — on  hearing  that  the  latter 
had  got  back  to  his  own  country — a  letter  expressing  grateful 
thanks  for  the  protection  that  had  been  extended  to  him. 

But  he  longed  also  to  thank  the  baronet  in  person.  The  tables 
were  now  turned.  His  own  service  had  been  amply  repaid ;  and 
he  hesitated  to  take  advantage  of  the  old  invitation — in  fear  of 
being  deemed  an  intruder.  Under  these  circumstances  the  new 
one  was  something  more  than  welcome. 

Sevenoaks  is  no  great  distance  from  London.  For  all  that,  it 
is  surrounded  by  scenery  as  retired  and  rural  as  can  be  found  in 
the  shires  of  England-- the  charming  scenery  of  Kent 

It  is  only  of  late  years  that  the  railway-whistle  has  waked  the 
echoes  of  those  deep  secluded  dales  stretching  around  Sevenoaks. 

With  a  heart  attuned  to  happiness,  and  throbbing  with  anticipa- 
ted pleasure,  did  the  late  revolutionary  leader  ride  along  its  roads. 
Not  on  horseback,  but  in  a  "  fly  "  chartered  at  the  railway  station, 
to  take  him  to  the  family  mansion  of  the  Vernons,  which  was  to 
be  found  at  about  four  miles'  distance  from  the  town. 

The  carriage  was  an  open  one,  the  day  clear  and  fine,  the 
country  looking  its  best — the  swedes  showing  green,  the 
stubble  yellow,  the  woods  and  copses  clad  in  the  ochre-coioured 
livery  of  autumn.  The  corn  had  been  all  cut.  The  partridges, 
in  full  covey,  and  still  comparatively  tame,  were  seen  straying 
through  the  "  stubs  " ;  while  the  pheasants,  already  thinned  off  by 
shot,  kept  more  shy  along  the  selvedge  of  the  cover.  He  might 
think  what  fine  sport  was  promised  him  ! 

He  was  thinking  not  of  this.      The  anticipated  pleasure  of 


2i4  The  Child  Wife- 


shooting  parties  had  no  place  in  his  thoughts.  They  were  all 
occupied  by  the  image  of  that  fair  child,  first  seen  on  the  storm- 
deck  of  an  Atlantic  steamer,  and  last  in  a  balcony  overlooking  the 
garden  of  the  Tuileries  \  for  he  had  not  seen  Blanche  Vernon 
since. 

But  he  had  often  thought  of  her.  Often  !  Every  day,  every 
hour ! 

And  his  soul  was  now  absorbed  by  the  same  contemplation — in 
recalling  the  souvenirs  of  every  scene  or  incident  in  which  she 
had  figured— his  first  view  of  her,  followed  by  that  strange  fore 
shadowing — her  face  reflected  in  the  cabin  mirror  — the  episode  in 
the  Mersey,  that  had  brought  him  still  nearer — her  backward  look, 
as  they  parted  on  the  landing-stage  at  Liverpool — and.  last  of  all, 
that  brief  glance  he  had  been  enabled  to  obtain,  as,  borne  along 
by  brutal  force,  he  beheld  her  in  the  balcony  above  him. 

From  this  remembrance  did  he  derive  his  sweetest  reflection. 
Not  from  the  sight  of  her  there  ;  but  the  thought  that  through  her 
interference  he  had  been  rescued  from  an  ignominious  death,  and 
a  fate  perhaps  never  to  be  recorded  !  He  at  least  knew,  that  he 
owed  his  life  to  her  father's  influence. 

And  now  was  he  to  be  brought  face  to  face  with  this  fair  young 
creature — within  the  sacred  precincts  of  the  family  circle,  and 
under  the  sanction  of  parental  rule — to  be  allowed  every  oppor- 
tunity of  studying  her  character—  perhaps  moulding  it  to  his  own 
secret  desires ! 

No  wonder  that,  in  the  contemplation  of  such  a  prospect, 
he  took  no  heed  of  the  partridges  straying  through  the  stubble, 
or  the  pheasants  skulking  along  the  edge  of  their  cover  ! 

It  was  nigh  two  years  since  he  had  first  looked  upon  her.  She 
would  now  be  fifteen,  or  near  to  it.  In  that  quick,  constrained 
glance  given  to  the  balcony  above,  he  saw  that  she  had  grown 
taller  and  bigger. 

So  much  the  better,  thought  he,  as  bringing  nearer  the  time 
when  he  should  be  able  to  test  the  truth  of  his  presentiment. 

Though  sanguine,  he  was  not  confident.  How  could  he  ?  A 
nameless,  almost  homeless  adventurer,  a  wide  gulf  lay  between 
him  and  this  daughter  of  an  English  baronet,  noted  in  name 
as  for  riches.     What  hope  had  he  of  being  able  to  bridge  it  ? 


To  the  Country.  215 


None,  save  that  springing  from  hope  itself:  perhaps  only  the 
wish  father  to  the  thought. 

It  might  be  all  an  illusion.  In  addition  to  the  one  great 
obstacle  of  unequal  wealth — the  rank  he  had  no  reason  to  con- 
sider— there  might  be  many  others. 

Blanche  Vernon  was  an  only  child,  too  precious  to  be  lightly 
bestowed — too  beautiful  to  go  long  before  having  her  heart 
besieged.     Already  it  may  have  been  stormed  and  taken. 

And  by  one  nearer  her  own  age — perhaps  some  one  her  father 
had  designed  for  the  assault. 

While  thus  cogitating,  the  cloud  that  flung  its  shadow  over 
Maynard's  face  told  how  slight  was  his  faith  in  fatalism. 

It  commenced  clearing  away,  as  the  fly  was  driven  up  to  the 
entrance  of  Vernon  Park,  and  the  gates  were  flung  open  to  receive 
him. 

It  was  quite  gone  when  the  proprietor  of  that  park,  meeting  him 
in  the  vestibule  of  the  mansion,  bade  him  warm  welcome  to  its 
botpitaliljr. 


CHAPTER  XLIV. 

AT   THE  MEET. 

There  is  perhaps  no  more  superb  sight  than  the  "  meet*  ot  an 

English  hunting-field— whether  it  be  staghounds  or  fox.  Even  tne 
grand  panoply  of  war,  with  its  semed  ranks  and  braying  band, 
is  not  more  exciting  than  the  tableau  of  scarlet  coats  grouped  over 
the  green,  the  hounds  bounding  impatiently  around  the  gold-laced 
huntsman  ;  here  and  there  a  horse  rearing  madly,  as  if  determined 
on  dismounting  his  rider ;  and  at  intervals  the  mellow  horn,  and 
sharply-cracked  whip  keeping  the  dogs  in  check. 

The  picture  is  not  complete  without  its  string  of  barouches  and 
pony  phaetons,  filled  with  their  fair  occupants  ,  a  grand  "drag" 
driven  by  the  duke,  and  carrying  the  duchess;  beside  it  the 
farmer  in  his  market  cart ;  and  outside  of  all  the  pedestrian  circle 
of  smock-frocks,  "  Hob,  Dick,  and  Hick,  with  clubs  and  clouted 
shoon,"  their  dim  attire  contrastiixg  with  the  scarlet,  tflaough  each 
— if  it  be  a  stag- hunt — with  bright  hopes  of  winning  the  bounty 
money  by  being  in  at  the  death  of  the  deer. 

At  such  a  meet  was  Captain  Maynard,  mounted  upon  a  steed 
from  the  stables  of  Sir  George  Vernon.  Beside  hirn  was  the 
baronet  himself,  and  near  by  his  daughter,  seated  in  an  open 
barouche,  with  Sabina  for  her  sole  carriage  companion. 

The  tawny-skinned  and  turbaned  attendant — more  like  what 
might  have  been  seen  at  an  Oriental  tiger  hunt — nevertheless 
added  to  the  picturesqueness  of  the  tableau. 

It  was  a  grouping  not  unknown  in  those  districts  of  England, 
where  the  returned  East  Indian  "  nabobs  "  have  settled  down  to 
spend  the  evening  of  their  days. 

In  such  places  even  a  Hindoo  prince,  in  the  costume  of 
Tippoo  Sahib,  nut  unfrequently  makes  appearance. 

The  day  was  as  it  should  be  for  a  hunt.  There  was  a  clear 
sky,  an  atmospb  *re  favourable  to  the  scent,  and  cool  enough  for 

u6 


At  tJte  Meet.  217 


putting  a  horse  to  his  speed.  Moreover,  the  hounds  had  been 
well  rested. 

The  gentlemen  were  jocund,  the  ladies  wreathed  in  smiles,  the 
smock-frocks  staring  at  them  with  a  pleased  expression  upon  their 
stolid  faces. 

All  appeared  happy,  as  they  waited  for  the  huntsman's  horn  to 
signal  the  array. 

There  was  one  in  that  gathering  who  shared  not  its  gaiety ;  a 
roan  mounted  upon  a  chestnut  hunter,  and  halted  alongside  the 
barouche  that  carried  Blanche  Vernon. 

This  man  was  Maynard. 

Why  did  he  not  participate  in  the  general  joy  ? 

The  reason  might  have  been  discovered  on  the  opposite  side  of 
the  baimuche,  in  the  shape  of  an  individual  on  horseback  also,  who 
called  Blanche  Vernon  his  cousin. 

Like  Maynard  too,  he  was  staying  at  Vernon  Park — a  guest 
admitted  to  a  still  closer  intimacy  than  himself. 

By  name  Scudamore — Frank  Scudamore — he  vas  a  youth  still 
boyish  and  beardless.  All  the  more,  on  this  account,  was  the  man 
of  mature  age  uneasy  at  his  presence. 

But  he  was  handsome  besides ;  fair-haired  and  of  florid  hue,  a 
sort  of  Saxon  Endymion  or  Adonis. 

And  she  of  kindred  race  and  complexion — of  nearly  equal  age 
— how  could  she  do  other  than  admire  him  ? 

There  could  be  no  mistaking  his  admiration  of  her.  Maynard 
had  discovered  it — in  an  instant — on  the  day  when  the  three  had 
been  first  brought  together. 

And  often  afterward  had  he  observed  it ;  but  never  more  than 
now,  as  the  youth,  leaning  over  in  his  saddle,  endeavoured  to 
engross  the  attention  of  his  cousin. 

And  he  appeared  to  succeed.  She  had  neither  look  nor  word 
for  any  one  else.  She  heeded  not  the  howling  of  the  hounds ; 
she  was  not  thinking  of  the  fox ;  she  was  listening  only  to  the 
pretty  speeches  of  young  Scudamore. 

All  this  Maynard  saw  with  bitter  chagrin.  Its  bitterness  was 
only  tempered  by  reflecting  how  little  right  he  had  to  expect  it 
otherwise. 

True  he  had  done  Blanche  Vernon  a  service.     He  believed  it 


2i$  The  Child  Wife. 


to  have  been  repaid  ;  for  it  must  have  been  through  her  inter 
cssion  he  had  been  rescued  from  the  Zouaves.  But  the  act  on 
her  part  was  one  of  simple  reciprocity — the  responsive  gratitude  of 
a  child  ! 

How  much  more  would  he  have  liked  being  the  recipient  of 
those  sentiments,  seemingly  lavished  on  young  Scndamore,  and 
spoken  in  half-whisper  into  his  ear. 

As  the  ex-captain  sate  chafing  in  his  saddle,  the  reflection 
passed  through  his  mind  : 

"  There  is  too  much  hair  upon  my  face.  She  prefers  the 
cheek  that  is  beardless." 

The  jealous  thought  must  have  descended  to  his  heels  ;  since, 
striking  them  against  the  flanks  of  his  horse,  he  rode  wide  away 
from  the  carriage ! 

And  it  must  have  continued  to  excite  him  throughout  the  chase, 
for,  plying  the  spur,  he  kept  close  to  the  pack ;  and  was  first  in  at 
the  death. 

That  day  a  steed  was  returned  to  the  stables  of  Sir  George 
Vernon  with  panting  reins  and  bleeding  ribs. 

A  guest  sat  down  to  his  dinner-table — a  stranger  among  the 
scarlet-coated  hunters  around  him,  who  had  won  their  respect  by 
having  ridden  well  up  to  the  hounds. 


CHAPTER   XLV. 

IN   THE   COVER. 

The  day  after  the  hurut  it  was  pheasant-shooting. 

The  morning  was  one  of  the  finest  known  to  the  climate  of 
England :  a  bright  blue  sky,  with  a  warm  October  sun. 

"  The  ladies  are  going  to  accompany  us  to  the  cover,"  said  Sir 
George,  making  glad  the  hearts  of  his  sportsmen  guests.  "  So, 
gentlemen,"  he  added,  "  you  must  have  a  care  how  you  shoot." 

The  expedition  was  not  a  distant  one.  The  pheasant  preserves 
of  Vernon  Park  lay  contiguous  to  the  house,  between  the  pleasure 
grounds  and  the  "  home  farm."  They  consisted  of  a  scrub  wood, 
with  here  and  there  a  large  tree  overshadowing  the  undergrowth 
of  hazel,  holly,  white  birch,  gorse,  dogwood,  and  briar.  They 
extended  over  a  square  mile  of  hilly  land,  interspersed  with  deep 
dells  and  soft  shaded  vales,  through  which  meandered  many  a 
crystal  rivulet. 

It  was  a  noted  cover  for  woodcock ;  but  too  early  for  these, 
and  pheasant-killing  was  to  be  the  pastime  of  the  day. 

After  breakfast  the  shooting  party  set  forth.  The  ladies  were, 
many  of  them,  staying  at  the  house ;  the  wives,  sisters,  and 
daughters  of  Sir  George's  gentlemen  guests.  But  there  were 
others  invited  to  the  sport — the  elite  of  the  neighbourhood. 

All  went  out  together — guided  by  the  head  gamekeeper,  and 
followed  by  spaniels  and  retrievers. 

Once  clear  of  the  grounds,  the  business  of  the  day  began  ;  and 
the  banging  of  double-barrelled  guns  soon  put  a  period  to  the 
conversation  that  had  continued  in  a  general  way  up  to  the  edge 
of  the  woodland. 

Once  inside  the  cover,  the  shooting  party  soon  became  dis- 
membered. Small  groups,  each  consisting  of  two  or  three  ladies 
and  the  same  number  of  gentlemen,  strayed  off  through  the  thicket, 
as  chance  the  ground,  or  the  gamekeepers,  conducted  them. 


220  The  Child  Wife. 


With  one  of  these  went  Maynard,  though  not  the  one  he  would 
have  elected  to  accompany.  A  stranger,  he  had  no  choice,  but 
was  thrown  along  with  the  first  set  that  offered— a  couple  of 
country  squires,  who  cared  far  more  for  the  pheasants  than  the 
fair  creatures  who  had  come  to  see  them  slaughtered. 

With  this  trio  of  shooters  there  was  not  a  single  lady.  One  or 
two  had  started  along  with  them.  But  the  squires,  being  keen 
sportsmen,  soon  left  their  long-skirted  companions  following  in 
the  distance  ;  and  Maynard  was  compelled  either  to  keep  up  with 
them  and  their  dogs,  or  abandon  the  shooting  altogether. 

Treading  on  with  the  sportsmen  he  soon  lost  sight  of  the  ladies, 
who  fell  far  behind.  He  had  no  great  regret  at  their  defection. 
None  of  them  chanced  to  be  either  very  young  or  very  attractive, 
and  they  were  luckily  attended  by  a  servant.  He  had  bidden 
adieu  to  them  by  exhibiting  a  pretended  zeal  in  pheasant-shooting 
far  from  being  felt,  and  which  he  would  scarce  have  done  had  Sir 
George  Vernon's  daughter  been  one  of  their  number. 

He  was  far  from  feeling  cheerful  as  he  strode  through  the 
preserves.  He  was  troubled  with  an  unpleasant  reflection — 
arising  from  an  incident  observed.  He  had  seen  the  baronet's 
daughter  pair  off  with  the  party  in  which  shot  young  Scudamore. 
As  she  had  done  so  unsolicited,  she  must  have  preferred  this  party 
to  any  other. 

The  ex-officer  was  not  so  expert  in  his  shooting  as  he  had 
shown  himself  at  the  hunt. 

Several  times  he  missed  altogether;  and  once  or  twice  the 
strong-winged  gallinaceae  rose  whirring  before  him,  without  his 
attempting  to  pull  trigger  or  even  elevate  his  gun  ! 

The  squires,  who  on  the  day  before  had  witnessed  his  dexterity 
in  the  saddle,  rather  wondered  at  his  being  such  a  poor  shot. 

They  little  dreamt  of  what  was  disqualifying  him.  They  only 
observed  that  he  was  abstracted,  but  guessed  not  the  cause. 

After  a  time  he  and  they  became  separated ;  they  thinking 
only  of  the  pheasants,  he  of  that  far  brighter  bird,  in  some  distant 
quarter  of  the  cover,  gleaming  amidst  the  foliage,  and  radiating 
delight  all  around. 

Perhaps  alone,  in  some  silent  dell,  with  young  Scudamoie  by 
her  side — authorized  to  keep  apart  through  their  cousinly  rela- 


In  the  Cover.  22 1 


tionship—  he,  perhaps,  pouring  into  her  ear  the  soft,  confident 

whisperings  of  a  cousin's  love  ! 

The  thought  rendered  Maynard  sad. 

It  might  have  excited  him  to  anger;  but  he  knew  he  had  no 
pretext.  Between  him  and  the  daughter  of  Sir  George  Vernon, 
as  yet,  only  a  few  speeches  had  been  exchanged ;  these  only 
commonplace  expressions  of  civility,  amidst  a  surrounding  of 
people,  her  friends  and  relatives.  He  had  not  even  found  oppor- 
tunity to  talk  over  those  incidents  that  had  led  to  the  present 
relationship  between  them. 

He  longed  for,  and  yet  dreaded  it !  That  presentiment,  at 
first  so  confidently  felt,  had  proved  a  deception. 

The  very  opposite  was  the  impression  now  upon  him  as  he 
stood  alone  in  the  silent  thicket,  with  the  words  falling  mechani- 
cally from  his  lips  : 

u  She  can  never  be  mine  ! n 

"  You  will,  Blanche  ?  You  will  ?  "  were  other  words  not  spoken 
by  himself,  but  heard  by  him,  as  he  stood  within  a  holly  copse, 
screened  by  its  evergreen  frondage. 

It  was  young  Scudamore  who  was  talking,  and  in  a  tone  of 
appealing  tenderness. 

There  was  no  reply,  and  the  same  words,  with  a  slight  addition, 
were  repeated  : 

"  You  will  promise  it,  Blanche  ?     You  will  ?  n 

Stilling  his  breath,  and  the  wild  beating  of  his  heart,  Maynard 
listened  for  the  answer.  From  the  tone  of  the  questioner's  voice 
he  knew  it  to  be  a  dialogue,  and  that  the  cousins  were  alone. 

He  soon  saw  that  they  were.  Walking  side  by  side  along  a 
wood-road,  they  came  opposite  to  the  spot  where  he  was 
standing. 

They  stopped.  He  could  not  see  them.  Their  persons  were 
concealed  by  the  prickly  fascicles  of  the  holly  hanging  low. 
These  did  not  hinder  him  from  hearing  every  word  exchanged 
between  the  two. 

How  p'veet  to  his  ears  was  the  answer  given  by  the  girL 

"  I  won't,  Frank  !     I  won't!" 

He  knew  not  its  full  significance,  nor  the  nature  of  the  promise 
appealed  for. 


222  The  Child  Wife. 


But  the  eclair cis sement  was  near,  and  this  gave  him  a  still  greater 
gratification. 

"  Indeed,"  said  Scudamore,  reproachfully,  "  I  know  why  you 
won't  promise  me.     Yes,  I  know  it." 

"  What  do  you  know,  Frank  ?  " 

"  Only,  what  everybody  can  see  :  that  you've  taken  a  liking  to 
this  Captain  Maynard,  who's  old  enough  to  be  your  father,  or 
grandfather  !  Ah  !  and  if  your  father  finds  it  out — well,  I  shan't 
say  what " 

"And  if  it  were  so,"  daringly  retorted  the  daughter  of  the 
baronet,  "  who  could  blame  me?  You  forget  that  the  gentleman 
saved  my  life  !  I'm  sure  I'd  have  been  drowned  but  for  his  noble 
behaviour.  Courageous,  too.  You  should  have  seen  the  big 
waves  wanting  to  swallow  me.  And  there  wasn't  any  one  else  to 
run  the  risk  of  stretching  forth  a  hand  to  me  !  He  did  save  my 
life.     Is  it  any  wonder  I  should  feel  grateful  to  him  ?  " 

"  You're  more  than  grateful,  Blanche  !  You're  in  love  with 
him  !" 

"  In  love  with  him  !  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  What  do  you  mean  by 
that,  cousin  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  you  needn't  make  light  of  it.    You  know  well  enough  1 " 

"  I  know  that  you're  very  disagreeable,  Frank  ;  you've  been  so 
all  the  morning." 

"  Have  I  ?  I  shan't  be  so  any  longer — in  your  company. 
Since  you  don't  seem  to  care  for  mine,  no  doubt  you'll  be  pleased 
at  my  taking  leave  of  you.  I  presume  you  can  find  the  way  home 
without  me  ?  You've  only  to  keep  up  this  wood-road.  It'll 
bring  you  to  the  park-gate." 

*'  You  needn't  concern  yourself  about  me,"  haughtily  rejoined 
the  daughter  of  Sir  George.  "  I  fancy  I  can  find  my  way  home 
without  any  assistance  from  my  gillant  cousin  Scudamore." 

The  provoking  irony  of  this  last  speech  brought  the  dialogue 
to  an  end. 

Irritated  by  it,  the  young  sportsman  turned  his  back  upon  his 
pretty  partner,  and  whistling  to  his  spaniel,  broke  abruptly  away, 
ioon  disappearing  behind  a  clump  of  copse  wood. 


CHAPTER   XLVI. 

▲   RECREANT   SPORTSMAN, 

"  I  owe  you  an  apology,  Miss  Vernon,"  said  Maynard,  coming 
out  from  under  the  hollies. 

"For  what?"  asked  the  young  girl,  startled  by  his  sudden 
appearance,  but  in  an  instant  becoming  calm. 

"For  having  overheard  the  closing  of  a  conversation  between 
you  and  your  cousin." 

She  stood  without  making  rejoinder,  as  if  recalling  what  had 
been  said. 

"  It  was  quite  unintentional,  I  assure  you,"  added  the  intruder. 
"  I  should  have  disclosed  myself  sooner,  but  I — I  can  scarce  tell 
what  hindered  me.     The  truth  is,  I " 

"  Oh  ! "  interrupted  she,  as  if  to  relieve  him  from  his  evident 
embarrassment,  "it  doesn't  in  the  least  signify.  Frank  was  talk- 
ing some  nonsense — that's  all." 

"  I'm  glad  you're  not  angry  with  me.  Though  I've  reason  to 
be  ashamed  of  my  conduct,  I  must  be  candid  and  tell  you,  that 
I  scarce  deem  it  a  misfortune  having  overheard  you.  It  is  so 
pleasant  to  listen  to  one's  own  praises." 

"But  who  was  praising  you  ?" 

The  question  was  asked  with  an  air  of  ndivetk  that  might  have 
been  mistaken  for  coquetry. 

Perhaps  she  had  forgotten  what  she  had  said. 

"  Not  your  cousin,"  replied  Maynard,  with  a  smile—*"  he  who 
thinks  me  old  enough  to  be  your  grandfather." 

"  Ha  !  ha  ! "  laughed  Miss  Vernon.  "  You  mustn't  mind  what 
Frank  says.     He's  always  offending  somebody." 

"  I  do  not  mind  it.  I  couldn't,  after  hearing  how  he  was  con- 
tradicted.    A  thousand  thanks  to  my  generous  defend«r ! " 

"  Oh  !  what  I  said  of  you  was  not  meant  for  praise.     I  was  but 


324  The  Child  Wife. 


speaking  the  truth.     But  for  you  I  should  have  been  drowned.    I 
am  sure  of  it." 

"  And  but  for  you  I  should  have  been  shot  Is  not  that  also 
the  truth  ?  " 

She  did  not  make  immediate  reply.  There  was  a  blush  on  her 
cheek,  strangely  contrasting  with  a  shadow  that  came  over  her  face. 

"  I  do  not  like  the  thought  of  any  one  being  in  my  debt — not 
even  you,  Miss  Vernon !  Confess  that  we  are  quits,  then.  It 
will  give  me  a  contentment  you  do  not  dream  of." 

"  I  do  not  quite  understand  you,  Captain  Maynard." 

f*  I  shall  be  plain,  then.  Was  it  not  you  who  sent  your  father 
to  save  me  ?  " 

It  was  a  superfluous  question,  and  he  knew  it  How  could  he 
be  ignorant  of  her  action  under  the  remembrance  of  those  sweet 
words,  "  1*11  come  to  you  !  I  will  come  1  * 

She  had  not  come,  as  he  supposed ;  but  she  had  done  better. 
She  had  deputed  one  who  had  proved  able  to  protect  him. 

"  It  is  true,"  replied  she.  "  I  told  papa  of  your  trouble.  It 
wasn't  much  for  me.  I  had  no  danger ;  and  must  have  shown 
myself  very  ungrateful  had  I  not  done  so.  You  would  have  been 
saved  without  that  Your  other  friends  would  have  been  in 
time." 

u  My  other  friends?  " 

"  Surely  you  know  ?  " 

"  Oh,  you  mean  the  American  Minister." 

"And  the  two  American  ladies  who  went  with  him  to  your 
prison." 

"  Two  ladies  1  I  saw  no  ladies.  I  never  heard  of  them.  The 
American  Minister  came ;  but  he  might  have  been  too  late.  It 
is  to  your  father — to  you — I  am  indebted  for  my  deliverance.  I 
wish,  Miss  Vernon,  you  could  understand  how  truly  grateful  I 
feel  to  you.     I  shall  never  be  able  to  show  it !  " 

Maynard  spoke  with  a  fervour  he  was  unable  to  control. 

It  was  not  checked  by  any  thought  of  the  two  ladies  who  had 
accompanied  the  American  Minister  to  his  Parisian  prison.  He 
had  his  surmises  as  to  who  they  were ;  and  there  was  a  time  when 
it  would  have  gratified  him.  Now  he  was  only  glad  to  think  that 
their  friendly  intent  had  been  anticipated  I 


A  Recreant  Sportsman.  225 

Standing  in  that  wood,  beside  a  bright  creature  worthy  of  being 
one  of  its  nymphs,  he  was  more  contented  to  believe  that  she  had 
been  the  preserver  of  his  life— as  he  of  hers. 

It  would  have  turned  his  contentment  to  supreme  happiness 
could  he  have  believed  her  gratitude  resembled  his  own — in 
kind. 

Her  soft  young  heart — how  he  yearned  to  read  it,  to  probe  it 
to  its  profoundest  depths ! 

It  was  a  task  delicate  and  dangerous;  too  delicate  for  a 
gentleman;  too  dangerous  for  one  whose  own  heart  was  in 
doubt 

He  feared  to  seek  further. 

"Miss  Vernon,"  he  said,  resuming  the  ordinary  tone  of 
discourse,  "your  cousin  appears  to  have  left  you  somewhat 
abruptly.  May  I  have  the  pleasure  of  conducting  you  to  the 
house  ?  I  think  I  can  find  the  way  after  hearing  Master  Scuda- 
more's  very  particular  directions." 

Master  Scudamore  1  Had  this  young  gentleman  been  present, 
he  might  have  felt  inclined  to  repudiate  the  juvenile  appellation. 

"  Oh,  no  ! "  said  the  baronet's  daughter,  scarce  longer  to  be 
called  a  child.  "I  know  the  way  well  enough.  You  mustn't 
leave  your  shooting,  Captain  Maynard  ! " 

"  I  cannot  continue  it ;  I  have  no  dogs.  The  very  zealous 
pair  of  sportsmen  to  whom  I  was  allotted  soon  outstripped  me, 
leaving  me  alone,  as  you  see.  If  I  am  not  permitted  to  accom- 
pany you,  I  must — I  suppose — I  must  remain  so." 

"  Oh,  if  you're  not  going  to  shoot,  you  may  as  well  go  with  me. 
It  may  be  very  lonely  for  you  at  the  house  ;  but  I  suppose  we'll 
find  some  of  the  others  who  have  returned." 

"  Not  lone'y*"  replied  the  recreant  sportsmen.  "  Not  lonely 
for  me,  if  you,  Miss  Vernon,  will  condescend  to  give  me  your 
company." 

Correctly  interpreted,  it  was  a  bold  speech ;  and  the  moment 
it  was  made,  Maynard  regretted  it. 

He  was  glad  to  perceive  that  it  was  taken  only  in  the  sense  of 
politeness ;  and,  the  young  girl  consenting,  he  walked  with  her 
along  the  wood-road  in  the  direction  of  the  dwelling. 

They  were  alone,  but  not  unwatched. 

Q 


226  The  Child  Wife. 


Skulking  behind  them,  with  gun  in  hand,  and  spaniel  at  his 
heels,  went  young  Scudamore.  He  did  not  attempt  to  overtake, 
but  only  watched  them  through  the  wood  and  along  the  park 
path,  till  they  had  joined  a  group  of  returned  ladies,  who  chanced 
to  be  strolling  through  the  lawn, 


CHAPTER  XLVIt  [ 

JUST   FIFTEEN. 

It  was  the  birthday  of  Blanche  Vernon.  Partly  in  view  of  its 
celebration  had  Sir  George  called  the  shooting  party  together. 

The  morning  had  passed  in  the  usual  manner — shooting  through 
the  covers.  In  the  evening  there  was  to  be  a  grand  dinner — and 
after  it  a  dance. 

The  evening  hour  had  come ;  and  the  baronet's  daughter  was 
in  her  bedroom,  attended  by  Sabina,  who  had  just  finished 
dressing  her  for  dinner. 

But  during  the  time  of  her  toilet  she  had  been  occupied  in  the 
perusal  of  a  newspaper,  that  seemed  greatly  to  interest  her. 
Every  now  and  then  an  exclamation  escaped  her  lips,  indicative 
of  joy,  until  at  length  the  journal  dropped  out  of  her  hands;  and 
she  remained  musing — as  if  in  some  thoughtful  reverie. 

It  ended  in  her  making  the  remark  : 

"  I  fancy  I'm  in  love." 

"Law!  Missy  Blanche,  why  you  'peak  so?  You  too  young 
tink  'bout  dat ! » 

"  Too  young  !     How  old  should  one  be  ?  " 

"  Well.  Dey  do  say  it  'pend  berry  much  on  the  nater  ob  de 
climate.  In  dem  Wess  Indy  Island  wha  it  ar  hot,  dey  fall  into 
<Ie  affecshun  sooner  dan  hya  in  Englan'.  I  know  lots  ob  young 
Badian  girl  get  married  'fore  dey  am  fo'teen,  an,'  dey  falls  in  lub 
sooner  dan  dat" 

"  But  I'm  fifteen  this  day.     You  know  it's  my  birthday  ?  " 

"Ob  coas  I  know  dat.  Fifteen  too  young  for  English  girl  j 
'pecially  a  lady  like  you,  Missy  Blanche." 

"  You  must  remember  I  lived  three  years  in  the  West  Indies." 

1  No  matter  'bout  dat  It  no  dirTrence  make  in  'spect  ob  de 
role.     In  Englan'  you  only  chile  yet." 

"Only   a  child  1     Nonsense,   Sabby  1    See   how    tail    I   am! 


228  The  Child  Wife. 


That  little  bed's  become  quite  too  short  for  me.  My  toes  touch  the 
bottom  of  it  every  night.  I  must  have  it  changed  for  a  bigger 
one ,  I  must." 

u  Don't  signify  'bout  you  length." 

"  Weil,  I'm  sure  I'm  stout  enough.  And  such  a  weight  1  Papa 
had  me  weighed  the  other  day  at  the  railway  station.  Seven 
stone  six  pounds — over  a  hundred  pounds.  Think  of  that, 
Sabby  ! " 

"  I  know  you  weighty  for  you  age.  But  dat  ain't  de  quessin 
when  you  talk  'bout  gettin'  married." 

M  Getting  married.     Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !     Who  talks  of  that?" 

"  Dat  what  folks  go  in  lub  for.     It  am  de  natral  consequence." 

"  Not  always,  I  think." 

"  Wha  dey  am  honest  in  dar  lub." 

u  Tell  me,  Sabby,  have  you  ever  been  in  love?" 

"  Sabby  am  a  Wess  Indy  Creole ;  you  no  need  ask  de  quessin. 
Why  you  ask  it,  Missa  ?  " 

"  Because — because  my  cousin  spoke  to  me  about  love,  this 
morning,  when  we  were  in  the  covers." 

"  Mass  Frank  ?  Law  !  he  you  speak  'bout  lub  1  Wha'd  he 
say,  Missy  Blanche?" 

"  He  wanted  me  to  promise  I  should  love  him,  and  be  true  to 
him." 

"  If  you  him  lub,  you  boun  be  true  to  him.  Ob  coas,  you  den 
marry  him." 

"  What !  a  boy  like  that !  Marry  cousin  Frank  1  Oh,  no. 
When  I  get  married,  it  must  be  to  a  man  ! " 

"  Berry  ciar  you  no  him  lub.  Den  may  be  dar  am  some'dy 
else?" 

"  You  admit  that  you've  been  in  love  yourself,  Sabby  ?  "  said 
her  young  mistress,  without  replying  to  the  last  remark. 

"  I  admit  dat,  Missa.     Sabby  hab  had  de  feelin'  twice." 

u  Twice  !     That  is  strange,  is  it  not  ?  " 

"  Not  in  de  Wess  Indy  Island." 

"Well,  no  matter  about  the  second  time.  If  I  should  ever 
Jove  twice,  then  I'd  know  all  about  it.  Tell  me,  Sabby,  how  did 
it  seem  the  first  time  ?  I  suppose  it's  the  same  with  you  coloured 
people  as  with  us  whites  ?  " 


Just  Fifteen,  229 


u  Jess  de  same — only  wif  de  Creole  it  am  mo'  so." 

"  More  so  1     More  what  ?  " 

"  De  Creole  lub  more  'trongly — more  burnin'  in  da  passion. 
I  feeled  like  I  kud  a  ate  dat  fella  up." 

"  What  fellow  ?  " 

"  De  fust  one.  I  wa'n't  neer  so  mad  atter  de  oder.  I  wa 
good  bit  older  den." 

"  But  you  were  never  married,  Sabina  ?  " 

"  Nebba." 

There  was  just  a  tinge  of  shadow  on  Sabina's  brow,  as  she 
made  this  confession. 

"  Why  you  ask  all  dese  quessins,  Missy  Blanche  ?  You  no 
gwine  think  fall  in  lub,  nor  get  married  ?" 

"  I  don't  think  of  it,  Sabby.  I  only  fear  that  I  have  fallen  in 
love.     I  fancy  I  have." 

"  Law  !  shoolly  you  know  whetha  you  hab  ?  " 

"  No,  indeed.  It's  for  that  reason  I  wish  you  to  tell  me  how 
it  seemed  to  you." 

"  Well,  I  tole  you  it  feel  I  kud  eat  de  fella." 

"  Oh  !  that  is  very  absurd.  You  must  be  jesting,  Sabby  ? 
I'm  sure  /  don't  feel  that  way." 

"Den  how,  Missa?" 

"  Well,  I  should  like  him  to  be  always  with  me,  and  nobody 
else  near.  And  I  should  like  him  to  be  always  talking  to  me  ;  I 
listening  and  looking  at  him ;  especially  into  his  eyes.  He  has 
such  beautiful  eyes.  And  they  looked  so  beautiful  to-day,  when 
I  met  him  in  the  wood  !  We  were  alone.  It  was  the  first  time. 
How  much  pleasanter  it  was  than  to  be  among  so  many  people  1 
I  wish  papa's  guests  would  all  go  away,  and  leave  only  him. 
Then  we  could  be  always  together  alone." 

"  Why,  Missa,  who  you  talk  'bout  ?     Massa  Cudamore?  " 

"  No — no.  Not  Frank.  He  might  go  with  the  rest.  I  don't 
care  for  his  staying." 

"  Who  den  ?  " 

u  Oh,  Sabby,  you  know  ?    You  should  know." 

"  Maybe  Sabby  hab  a  'spicion.  P'raps  she  no  far  'stray  to  tink 
it  am  de  gen'lum  dat  Missa  'company  home  from  de  thootin 
cubbas." 


230  The  Child  Wife. 


» 


"  Yes  ;  it  is  he.     I'm  not  afraid  to  tell  you,  Sabby." 

"  You  betta  no  tell  nob'dy  else.  You  ladder  know  dat,  he  awfu 
angry.     I'm  satin  shoo  he  go  berry  mad  'bout  it." 

t4  But  why  ?     Is  there  any  harm  in  it  ?  " 

"  Ah,  why  !  Maybe  you  find  out  in  time.  You  betta  gib 
you  afFecshun  to  your  cousin  Cudamore." 

"  Impossible  to  do  that.     I  don't  like  him.     I  can't' 

"  An  you  like  de  oder?  " 

"  Certainly  I  do.     I  can't  help  it.     How  could  I  ?" 

The  Creole  did  not  much  wonder  at  this.  She  belonged  to  a 
race  of  women  wonderfully  appreciative  of  the  true  qualities  of 
men  ;  and  despite  a  little  aversion  at  first,  felt  she  had  learned 
to  like  the  'publican  captain.  It  was  he  of  whom  they  were 
speaking. 

"  But,  Missa,  tell  me  de  truth.     You  tink  he  like  you  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know.     I'd  give  a  great  deal  to  think  so." 

"  How  much  you  gib  ?" 

"  All  the  world— if  I  had  it.  Oh,  dear  Sabby  1  do  you  believe 
he  does  ?  " 

"  Well ;  Sabby  b'lieve  he  no  hate  you." 

"  Hate  me  !  no— no.     Surely  he  could  not  do  that !  * 

"Surely  not,"  was  the  reflection  of  the  Creole,  equally  well- 
skilled  in  the  qualities  of  women. 

"  How  could  he  ?  "  she  thought,  gazing  upon  her  young  mistress, 
with  an  eye  that  recognised  in  her  a  type  of  all  that  may  be 
deemed  angelic. 

"Well,  Missy  Blanche,"  she  said,  without  declaring  her  thoughts, 
"whetha  he  like  you  or  no,  take  Sabby  advice,  an'  no  tell  any  one 
you  hab  de  likin'  for  him.  I  satin  shoo  dat  not  greeable  to  you 
fadder.  It  breed  trouble— big  trouble.  Keep  dis  ting  to  youse 
— buried  down  deep  in  you  own  buzzum.  No  fear  Sabby  'tray 
you.  No,  Missy  Blanche ;  she  tink  you  dear  good  child.  She 
tan  by  you  troo  de  tick  and  thin — for  ebba." 

"  Thanks,  dear  Sabby  !  I  know  you  will ;  I  know  it" 

"  Das'  de  dinna  bell.  Now  you  must  go  down  to  drawin'- 
roorr* ;  and  doan  make  dat  ere  cousin  ob  yours  angry.  I  mean 
Massa  Cudamore.  Berry  'trange  young  buckra  dat  Hab 
temper  ob  de  debbil  an'  de  cunnin'  ob  a  sarpint     If  he  'spect  you 


Just  Fifteen.  2%\ 

tink  'bout  de  Capten  Maynad,  he  big  trouble  wit  you  fadder 
breed,  shoo  as  snakes  am  snakes.  So,  Missy  Blanche,  you  keep 
dark  'bout  all  dese  tings,  till  de  time  come  for  contessin'  dem." 

Blanche,  already  dressed  for  dinner,  descended  to  the  drawing- 
room,  but  not  before  promising  obedience  to  the  injunction  of  her 
Creole  confidant* 


CHAPTER  XLVIII. 

THE    DINNER. 

The  dinner-part)  of  that  day  was  the  largest  Sir  George  had 
given.  As  already  known,  it  was  the  fifteenth  birthday  of  Blanche, 
his  only  child. 

The  guests  intended  to  take  seats  at  the  table  had  been  care- 
fully selected.  In  addition  to  those  staying  at  the  Hall,  there 
were  others  specially  invited  for  the  occasion — of  course,  the 
first  families  of  the  shire,  who  dwelt  within  dining  distance. 

In  all,  there  were  over  twenty — several  of  them  distinguished 
by  titles — while  twice  as  many  more  were  expected  to  drop  in 
afterwards.     A  dance  was  to  follow  the  dinner. 

As  Maynard,  having  made  his  toilet,  descended  to  the  drawing 
room,  he  found  it  comfortably  filled.  Bevies  of  beautiful  women 
were  seated  upon  the  sofas,  each  in  a  wonderful  abundance  of  skirt, 
and  a  still  more  surprising  scantiness  of  bodice  and  sleeves. 

Interspersed  among  them  were  the  gentlemen,  all  in  deep 
black,  relieved  only  by  the  time-honoured  white  choker— their 
plain  dresses  contrasting  oddly  with  the  rich  silks  and  satins  that 
rustled  around  them. 

Soon  after  entering  the  room,  he  became  conscious  of  being 
under  all  eyes — both  male  and  female  :  in  short,  their  cynosure. 

It  was  something  beyond  the  mere  customary  glance  given  to 
a  new  guest  on  his  announcement  As  the  butler  in  stentorian 
voice  proclaimed  his  name,  coupling  it  with  his  military  title,  a 
thrill  appeared  to  pass  through  the  assemblage.  The  "  swell "  in 
tawny  moustache,  forsaking  his  habitual  air  of  superciliousness, 
turned  readily  toward  him ;  dowagers  and  duchesses,  drawing  out 
their  gold-rimmed  glasses,  ogled  him  with  a  degree  of  interest 
unusual  for  these  grand  dames  ;  while  their  daughters  vouchsah.-a 
glances  of  a  more  speaking  and  pleasant  nature. 


The  Dinner.  233 


Maynard  did  not  know  what  to  make  of  it  A  stranger  of 
somewhat  peculiar  antecedents,  he  might  expect  scrutiny. 

But  not  of  that  concentrated  kind-  -in  a  company  reputed  above 
all  others  for  its  good  breeding. 

He  was  himself  too  well-bred  to  be  taken  aback.  Besides,  he 
saw  before  him  faces  that  appeared  friendly ;  while  the  eyes  of  the 
discriminating  dowagers,  seen  through  their  pebbles,  instead  of 
quizzing,  seemed  to  regard  him  with  admiration  ! 

Though  not  disconcerted,  he  could  not  help  feeling  surprised. 
Many  of  those  present  he  had  met  before ;  had  hunted,  shot,  and 
even  dined  with  them.  Why  should  they  be  now  receiving  him 
with  an  interest  not  hitherto  exhibited? 

The  explanation  was  given  by  his  host,  who,  approaching  in  a 
friendly  manner,  pronounced  the  words : 

"  Captain  Maynard,  we  congratulate  you  !  " 

"  On  what,  Sir  George  ?  "  inquired  the  astonished  guest. 

"Your  literary  success.  We  had  already  heard,  sir,  of  youi 
skill  in  wielding  the  sword.  We  were  not  aware  that  you  were 
equally  skilful  with  another  and  like  honourable  weapon — the 
pen." 

"  You  are  very  complimentary  ;  but  I  do  not  quite  comprehenc 
you." 

"  You  will,  by  glancing  at  this.  I  presume,  sir,  you  have  no» 
yet  seen  it — since  it  has  just  come  down  by  the  last  post?  " 

As  Sir  George  spoke,  he  held  up  a  broadsheet,  whose  title  pro 
claimed  it  the  fashionable  morning  journal  of  London. 

Maynard's  eye  was  directed  to  a  column,  in  large  type,  headed 
by  his  own  name.  Underneath  was  the  review  of  a  book— a  novel 
he  had  written  ;  but  which,  before  his  leaving  London,  had  not 
received  the  usual  notice  from  the  newspaper  press.  The  journal 
in  question  gave  the  first  public  announcement  of  its  appearance 
and  quality. 

"  Three  extraordinary  volumes,  written  by  no  every-day  man. 
Of  Captain  Maynard  it  may  be  said  what  Byron  wrote  of 
Buonaparte : 

*  And  quiet  to  quick  bosoms  is  a  hell."* 

So  commenced  the  review  ;  and  then  ran  on  in  the  same  strain 
of   almost  hyperbolic    praise ;    the  reviewer  ending  his  remarks 


234  TJu  Child  Wife 


with  the  statement  that  "  a  new  star  had  appeared  in  the  literary 
firmament." 

The  author  did  not  read  the  long  column  of  compliment  paid 
by  some  generous  pen — of  course  outside  the  literary  clique  — 
and  entirely  unknown  to  him.  He  only  glanced  at  the  opening 
paragraphs  and  conclusion,  returning  the  paper  to  the  hand  of  his 
host. 

It  would  be  untrue  to  say  he  was  not  pleased ;  but  equally  so 
to  declare  that  he  was  not  also  surprised.  He  had  little  thought, 
while  recording  some  incidents  of  his  life  in  a  far  foreign  land — 
while  blending  them  with  emotions  of  a  still  later  date,  and  mould- 
ing them  into  romance — little  had  he  dreamt  that  his  labour  of  love 
was  destined  to  give  him  a  new  kind  of  fame,  and  effect  a  com- 
plete change  in  his  career.  Hitherto  he  had  thought  only  of  the 
sword.     It  was  to  be  laid  aside  for  the  pen. 

"  Dinner  is  served  !  "  announced  the  butler,  throwing  wide  open 
the  drawing-room  doors. 

Sir  George's  guests  paired  off  by  introduction ;  the  newly  dis- 
covered author  finding  himself  bestowed  upon  a  lady  of  title. 

She  was  a  young  and  interesting  creature,  the  Lady  Mary  P , 

daughter  of  one  of  the  proudest  peers  in  the  realm. 

But  her  escort  cared  little  for  this.  He  was  thinking  of  that 
younger  and  yet  more  interesting  creature — the  daughter  of  his 
host. 

During  the  few  minutes  spent  in  the  drawing-room,  he  had  been 
watching  her  with  ardent  glances. 

Almost  snatching  the  fashionable  journal  from  her  father's 
hand,  she  had  withdrawn  to  a  retired  corner,  and  there  sat,  with 
apparent  eagerness,  devouring  its  contents. 

By  the  position  of  the  sheet,  he  could  tell  the  column  on  which 
she  was  engaged  ;  and,  as  the  light  of  the  chandelier  fell  upon  her 
face,  he  endeavoured  to  read  its  expression. 

While  writing  that  romance,  he  remembered  with  what  tender 
emotions  he  had  been  thinking  of  her.  Did  she  reciprocate  those 
thoughts,  now  reading  the  review  of  it  ? 

It  was  sweet  to  perceive  a  smile  upon  her  countenance,  as  it 
the  praise  bestowed  was  giving  her  gratification.  Sweeter  still, 
when,  the  reading  finished,  she  looked  searchingly  around  the 


The  Dinner.  235 


room,  till  her  eyes   rested   upon   him,  with  a  proud,   pleased 
expression  ! 

A  summons  to  the  best  dinner  in  the  world  was  but  a  rude 

interruption  to  that  adorable  glance. 

As  he  afterwards  sat  near  the  head  of  the  dinner-table,  with 
Lady  Mary  by  his  side,  how  he  envied  the  more  juvenile  guests 
at  the  foot,  especially  young  Scudamore,  to  whom  had  been 
allotted  that  bright,  beautiful  star,  whose  birth  they  were  assembled 
to  celebrate ! 

Maynard  could  no  more  see  her.  Between  them  was  a  huge 
epergne,  loaded  with  the  spoils  of  the  conservatory.  How  he 
detested  its  ferns  and  its  flowers,  the  gardener  who  had  gath- 
ered, and  the  hand  that  arranged  them  into  such  impenetrable 
festoons  I 

During  the  dinner  he  was  inattentive  to  his  titled  companion 
— almost  to  impoliteness.  Her  pleasant  speeches  were  scarce 
listened  to,  or  answered  incoherently.  Even  her  ample  silken 
skirts,  insidiously  rustling  against  his  knees,  failed  to  inspire  him 
with  the  divinity  of  her  presence  ! 

Lady  Mary  had  reason  to  believe  in  a  doctrine  oft  propounded  : 
that  in  social  life  men  of  genius  are  not  only  insipid,  but  stupid. 
No  doubt  she  thought  Maynard  so  ;  for  it  seemed  a  relief  to  her, 
as  the  dinner  came  to  an  end,  and  the  ladies  rose  to  betake  them- 
selves to  the  drawing-room. 

Even  with  an  ill  grace  did  he  draw  back  her  chair :  his  eyes 
straying  across  the  table,  where  Blanche  Vernon  was  filing  past 
in  the  string  of  departing  guests. 

But  a  glance  given  by  the  latter,  after  clearing  the  epergne,  more 
than  repaid  him  for  the  frown  upon  Lady  Mary's  face,  as  she 
•wept  away  from  his  side  1 


CHAPTER  XLIX. 

THE    DANCE. 

The  gentlemen  stayed  but  a  short  while  over  their  wine.  The 
twanging  of  harp-strings  and  tuning  of  violins,  heard  outside,  told 
that  their  presence  was  required  in  the  drawing-room — whither 
Sir  George  soon  conducted  them. 

During  the  two  hours  spent  at  dinner,  a  staff  of  domestics  had 
been  busy  in  the  drawing-room.  The  carpets  had  been  taken  up, 
and  the  floor  waxed  almost  to  an  icy  smoothness.  The  additional 
guests  had  arrived;  and  were  grouped  over  it,  waiting  for  the 
music  to  begin. 

There  is  no  dance  so  delicious  as  that  of  the  drawing-room 
— especially  in  an  English  country  house.  There  is  a  pleasant 
'"lome-feeling  about  it,  unknown  to  the  crush  of  the  public  ball — 
be  it  "  county  "  or  "  hunt." 

It  is  full  of  mystic  imaginations — recalling  Sir  Roger  de  Cover- 
ley,  and  those  dear  olden  times  of  supposed  Arcadian  innocence. 

The  dancers  all  know  each  other.'  If  not,  introductions  are 
easily  obtained,  and  there  is  no  dread  about  making  new  ac- 
quaintances :  since  there  is  no  danger  in  doing  so. 

Inside  the  room  is  an  atmosphere  you  can  breathe  without 
thought  of  being  stifled  ;  outside  a  supper  you  can  eat,  and  wines 
you  may  drink  without  fear  of  being  poisoned — adjuncts  rarely 
found  near  tne  shrines  of  Terpsichore. 

Maynard,  though  still  a  stranger  to  most  of  Sir  George's  guests, 
was  made  acquainted  with  as  many  of  them  as  chanced  in  his 
waj  Those  lately  arrived  had  also  read  the  fashionable  journal, 
or  heard  of  its  comments  on  the  new  romance  soon  to  be  sent 
them  by  "  Mudie."  And  there  is  no  circle  in  which  genius  meets 
with  greater  admiration  than  in  that  of  the  English  aristocracy 
— especially  when  supposed  to  have  been  discovered  in  one  of 
their  own  class. 

Somewhat  to  his  surprise.  Maynard  found  himself  the  hero  of 


The  Dance,  237 


the  hour.  He  could  not  help  feeling  gratified  by  complimentary 
speeches  that  came  from  titled  lips — many  of  them  the  noblest 
in  the  land.  It  was  enough  to  make  him  contented.  He  might 
have  reflected,  how  foolish  he  had  been  in  embracing  a  political 
faith  at  variance  with  that  of  all  around  him,  and  so  long  separa- 
ting him  from  their  pleasant  companionship. 

In  the  face  of  success  in  a  far  different  field,  this  seemed  for  the 
time  forgotten  by  them. 

And  by  him,  too  :  though  without  any  intention  of  ever  forsak- 
ing those  republican  principles  he  had  adopted  for  his  creed.  His 
political  leanings  were  not  alone  of  choice,  but  conviction.  He 
could  not  have  changed  them,  if  he  would. 

But  there  was  no  need  to  intrude  them  in  that  social  circle ; 
and,  as  he  stood  listening  to  praise  from  pretty  lips,  he  felt 
contented — even  to  happiness. 

That  happiness  reached  its  highest  point,  a/  he  heard  half- 
whispered  in  his  ear  the  congratulatory  speech : 

"  I'm  so  glad  of  your  success  ! " 

It  came  from  a  young  girl  with  whom  he  was  dancing  in  the 
Lancers,  and  who,  for  the  first  time  during  the  night,  had  become 
his  partner.     It  was  Blanche  Vernon. 

"I  fear  you  are  flattering  me  !  "  was  his  reply.  "  At  all  events, 
the  reviewer  has  done  so.  The  journal  from  which  you've  drawn 
your  deduction  is  noted  for  its  generosity  to  young  authors — an 
exception  to  the  general  rule.  It  is  to  that  I  am  indebted  for  what 
you,  Miss  Vernon,  are  pleased  to  term  success.  It  is  only  the 
enthusiasm  of  my  reviewer  ;  perhaps  interested  in  scenes  that  may 
be  novel  to  him.  Those  described  in  my  romance  are  of  a  land 
not  much  known,  and  still  less  written  about." 

"  But  they  are  very  interesting  !  " 

"  How  can  you  tell  that  ?  "  asked  Maynard,  in  surprise.  •'  Yon 
have  not  read  the  book  ?  " 

"  No  ;  but  the  newspaper  has  given  the  story — a  portion  of  it 
I  can  judge  from  that." 

The  author  had  not  been  aware  of  this.  He  had  only  glanced 
at  the  literary  notice — at  its  first  and  final  paragraphs. 

These  had  flattered  him ;  but  not  so  much  as  the  words  now 
beard,  and  appearing  truthfully  spoken. 


238  The  Child  Wife. 


A  thrill  of  delight  ran  through  him,  at  the  thought  of  those 
scenes  having  interested  her.  She  had  been  in  his  thoughts 
all  the  while  he  was  painting  them.  It  was  she  who  had  inspired 
that  portraiture  of  a  "  CHILD  WIFE,"  giving  to  the  book  any 
charm  he  supposed  it  to  possess. 

He  was  almost  tempted  to  tell  her  so  \  and  might  have  done  it, 
but  for  the  danger  of  being  overheard  by  the  dancers. 

"  I  am  sure  it  is  a  very  interesting  story,"  said  she,  as  they  came 
together  again  after  "  turning  to  corners."  "  I  shall  continue  to 
think  so,  till  I've  read  the  book  ;  and  then  you  shall  have  my  own 
opinion  of  it." 

"  I  have  no  doubt  you'll  be  disappointed.  The  story  is  one  of 
rude  frontier  life,  not  likely  to  be  interesting  to  young  ladies." 

"  But  your  reviewer  does  not  say  so.  Quite  the  contrary.  He 
describes  it  as  full  of  very  tender  scenes." 

"  I  hope  you  may  like  them." 

"  Oh !  I'm  so  anxious  to  read  it ! "  continued  the  young 
girl,  without  appearing  to  notice  the  speech  so  pointedly  ad- 
dressed to  her.  "  I'm  sure  I  shan't  sleep  to-night,  thinking  about 
it!" 

"  Miss  Vernon,  you  know  not  how  much  I  am  gratified  by  the 
interest  you  take  in  my  first  literary  effort.  If,"  added  the  author 
with  a  laugh,  "  I  could  only  think  you  would  not  be  able  to  sleep 
the  night  after  reading  it,  I  might  believe  in  the  success  which 
the  newspaper  speaks  of." 

"  Perhaps  it  may  be  so.  We  shall  soon  see.  Papa  has  already 
telegraphed  to  Mudie's  for  the  book  to  be  sent  down,  and  we  may 
expect  it  by  the  morning  train.  To-morrow  night — if  you've  not 
made  the  story  a  very  long  one — I  promise  you  my  judgment 
upon  it" 

"  The  story  is  not  long.  I  shall  be  impatient  to  hear  what  you 
think  of  it." 

And  he  was  impatient.  All  next  day,  while  tramping  through 
stubble  and  turnip-field  in  pursuit  of  partridges,  and  banging  away 
at  the  birds,  he  had  thoughts  only  of  his  book,  and  her  he  knew 
to  be  reading  it  I 


CHAPTER  I* 

▲  JEALOUS   COUSIN. 

Frank  Scudamore,  of  age  about  eighteen,  was  one  of  England's 
gilded  youth. 

Born  with  a  silver  spoon  in  his  mouth,  brought  up  amidst 
abundance  of  gold,  with  broad  acres  for  his  heritage,  and  a  peer- 
age in  prospect,  he  was  deemed  a  desirable  companion  for  young 
girls,  soon  to  become  women  and  wives. 

More  than  one  match-making  mother  had  his  name  upon  her 
list  of  "  eligibles." 

It  soon  became  evident  that  these  ladies  would  be  under  the 
necessity  of  "  scratching  "  him  ;  inasmuch  as  the  prospective  peer 
had  fixed  his  affections  upon  one  who  was  motherless — Blanche 
Vernon. 

He  had  passed  enough  time  at  Vernon  Park  to  become 
acquainted  with  the  rare  qualities  of  his  cousin.  As  a  boy  he  had 
loved  her ;  as  a  youth  he  adored  her. 

It  had  never  occurred  to  him  that  anything  should  come 
between  him  and  his  hopes,  or  rather  his  desires.  Why  should  he 
talk  about  hopes,  since  the  experience  of  his  whole  life  taught 
him  that  to  wish  was  to  obtain  ? 

He  wished  for  Blanche  Vernon ;  and  had  no  fear  about  obtain- 
ing her.  He  did  not  even  think  it  necessary  to  make  an  effort  to 
win  her.  He  knew  that  his  father,  Lord  Scudamore,  looked  for- 
ward to  the  alliance ;  and  that  her  father  was  equally  favourable 
to  it.  There  could  be  no  opposition  from  any  quarter,  and  he 
only  waited  till  his  young  sweetheart  should  be  ready  to  become 
a  wife,  that  he  might  propose  to  her,  and  be  accepted. 

He  did  not  think  of  his  own  youthfulness.  At  eighteen  he 
believed  himself  a  man. 

Hitherto  he  had  been  little  troubled  with  competitors.  It  is 
true  that  others  of  the  jeuness*  dore  had  looked  at,  and  talked  of 
the  beautiful  Blanche  Vernon. 


240  T/ie  Child   Wife. 


But  Frank  Scudamore,  endowed  with  extraordinary  claims,  as 
favoured  by  chances,  had  little  to  fear  from  their  rivalry ;  and  one 
after  another,  on  shedding  their  evanescent  light,  had  disappeared 
from  his  path. 

At  length  came  that  black  shadow  across  it ;  in  the  person  of  a 
man,  old  enough,  as  he  had  spitefully  said,  to  be  Blanche  Ver 
non's  father !     The  grandfather  was  an  expression  of  hyperbole. 

This  man  was  Maynard. 

Scudamore,  while  visiting  at  Vernon  Park,  had  heard  a  good 
deal  said  in  praise  of  the  adventurous  stranger ;  too  much  to 
make  it  possible  he  should  ever  take  a  liking  to  him — especially 
as  the  praise  had  proceeded  from  the  lips  of  his  pretty  cousin. 
He  had  met  Maynard  for  the  first  time  at  the  shooting  party,  and 
his  anticipated  dislike  was  realized,  if  not  reciprocated. 

It  was  the  most  intense  of  antipathies — that  of  jealousy. 

It  had  shown  itself  at  the  hunting  meet,  in  the  pheasant  pre- 
serves, in  the  archery  grounds,  in  the  house  at  home — in  short 
everywhere. 

As  already  known,  he  had  followed  his  cousin  along  the  wood- 
path.  He  had  watched  every  movement  made  by  her  while  in 
the  company  of  her  strange  escort — angry  at  himself  for  having  so 
carelessly  abandoned  her.  He  had  not  heard  the  conversation, 
passing  between  them ;  but  saw  enough  to  satisfy  him  that  it 
savoured  of  more  than  a  common  confidence.  He  had  been 
smarting  with  jealousy  all  the  rest  of  that  day,  and  all  the  next, 
which  was  her  birthday ;  jealous  at  dinner,  as  he  observed  her 
eyes  making  vain  endeavours  to  pierce  the  epergne  of  flowers ; 
madly  jealous  in  the  dance — especially  at  that  time  when  the 
"  Lancers  M  were  on  the  floor,  and  she  stood  partner  to  the  man 
"  old  enough  to  be  her  father." 

Notwithstanding  the  noble  blood  in  his  veins,  Scudamore  was 
mean  enough  to  keep  close  to  them,  and  listen  I 

And  he  heard  some  of  the  speeches,  half-compromising,  that 
had  passed  between  them. 

Stung  to  desperation,  he  determined  to  report  them  to  his 
uncle. 

On  the  day  following  his  daughter's  birthday,  Sir  George  did 
not  accompany  his  guests  to  the  field.     He  excused  himself,  oc 


A  Jealous  Cousin.  241 


the  plea  that  diplomatic  business  required  him  to  confine  himself 
to  his  library.     He  was  sincere ;  for  such  was  in  reality  the  case. 

His  daughter  also  stayed  at  home.  As  expected,  the  new  novel 
had  come  down — an  uncut  copy,  fresh  from  the  hands  of  the 
binder. 

Blanche  had  seized  upon  it ;  and  gaily  bidding  every  one  good- 
bye, had  hurried  off  to  her  own  apartment,  to  remain  immured 
for  the  day  ! 

With  joy  Maynard  saw  this,  as  he  sallied  forth  along  with  the 
shooting  party.  Scudamore,  staying  at  home,  beheld  it  with  bitter 
chagrin. 

Each  had  his  own  thoughts,  as  to  the  effect  the  perusal  of  the 
book  might  produce. 

It  was  near  mid-day,  and  the  diplomatic  baronet  was  seated  in 
his  library,  preparing  to  answer  a  despatch  freshly  received  from 
the  Foreign  Office,  when  he  was  somewhat  abruptly  intruded 
upon.     His  nephew  was  the  intruder. 

Intimate  as  though  he  were  a  son,  and  some  day  to  be  his  son- 
in-law,  young  Scudamore  required  to  make  no  excuse  for  the 
intrusion. 

"  What  is  it,  Frank  ?  "  was  the  inquiry  of  the  diplomatist,  hold- 
ing the  despatch  to  one  side. 

"It's  about  Blanche,"  bluntly  commenced  the  nephew. 

"  Blanche  !  what  about  her  ?  " 

"  I  can't  say  that  it's  much  my  business,  uncle ;  except  out  of 
respect  for  our  family.  She's  your  daughter ;  but  she's  also  my 
cousin." 

Sir  George  let  the  despatch  fall  flat  upon  the  table ;  readjusted 
his  spectacles  upon  his  nose ;  and  fixed  upon  his  nephew  a  look 
of  earnest  inquiry. 

"  What  is  this  you're  talking  of,  my  lad  ?  "  he  asked,  after  a 
period  passed  in  scrutinizing  the  countenance  of  young  Scuda- 
more. 

"  I'm  almost  ashamed  to  tell  you,  uncle.  Something  you  might 
have  seen  as  easily  as  I." 

"But  I  haven't.     What  is  it?" 

"Well,  you've  admitted  a  man  into  your  house  who  does  not 
appear  to  be  a  gentleman." 

«. 


242  The  Child   Wife. 


"Whatman?" 

"This  Captain  Maynard,  as  you  call  him." 

u  Captain  Maynard  not  a  gentleman  !  What  grounds  have  you 
for  saying  so?  Be  cautious,  nephew.  It's  a  serious  charge  against 
any  guest  in  my  house— more  especially  one  who  is  a  stranger. 
I  have  good  reasons  for  thinking  he  is  a  gentleman." 

"  Dear  uncle,  I  should  be  sorry  to  differ  from  you,  if  I  hadn't 
good  reasons  for  thinking  he  is  not." 

"  Let  me  hear  them  ! " 

"  Well,  in  the  first  place,  I  was  with  Blanche  in  the  covers,  the 
day  before  yesterday.  It  was  when  we  all  went  pheasant-shooting. 
We  separated ;  she  going  home,  and  I  to  continue  the  sport.  I 
had  got  out  of  sight,  as  he  supposed,  when  this  Mr.  Maynard 
popped  out  from  behind  a  holly  copse,  and  joined  her.  I'm 
positive  he  was  there  waiting  for  the  opportunity.  He  gave  up 
his  shooting,  and  accompanied  her  home ;  talking  all  the  way, 
with  as  much  familiarity  as  if  he  had  been  her  brother  ! " 

"  He  has  the  right,  Frank  Scudamore.  He  saved  my  child's 
life.'1 

"  But  that  don't  give  him  the  right  to  say  the  things  he  said  to 
her." 

Sir  George  started 

"What  things?" 

"Well,  a  good  many.  I  don't  mean  in  the  covers.  What 
passed  between  them  there,  of  course,  I  couldn't  hear.  I  was  too 
far  off.     It  was  last  night,  while  they  were  dancing,  I  heard  them." 

"  And  what  did  you  hear  ?  " 

"They  were  talking  about  this  new  book  Mr.  Maynard  has 
written.  My  cousin  said  she  was  so  anxious  to  read  it  she  would 
not  be  able  to  sleep  that  night.  In  reply,  he  expressed  a  hope 
she  would  feel  the  same  way  the  night  after  reading  it.  Uncle,  is 
that  the  sort  of  speech  for  a  stranger  to  address  to  Blanche,  or  for 
her  to  listen  to  ?  " 

The  question  was  superfluous ;  and  Scudamore  saw  it,  by  the 
abrupt  manner  in  which  the  spectacles  were  jerked  from  Sir 
George's  nose. 

"You  heard  all  that,  did  you  ?"  he  asked,  almost  mechanically 

"  Every  word  of  it." 


A  Jealous  Cousin.  243 


"  Between  ray  daughter  and  Captain  Maynard  ?  " 

"  I  have  said  so,  uncle." 

"  Then  say  it  to  no  one  else.  Keep  it  to  yourself,  Frank  till 
I  speak  to  you  again.  Go  now  !  I've  Government  business  tc? 
attend  to,  that  requires  all  my  time.     Go !  " 

The  nephew,  thus  authoritatively  dismissed,  retired  from  the 
Kbrary. 

As  soon  as  he  was  outside  the  door,  the  baronet  sprang  up  out 
of  his  chair;  and  striding  excitedly  aiound  the  room,  exclaimed 
to  himself : 

"  This  comes  of  showing  kindness  to  a  republican — a  traitor  t© 
his  Queen  l* 


CHAPTER  LI. 

UNDER   THE    DEODARA. 

The  birthday  of  Blanche  Vernon  did  not  terminate  the  festivities 
at  her  father's  house. 

On  the  second  day  after,  there  was  a  dinner  party  of  like  splen- 
did appointment,  succeeded  by  dancing. 

It  was  the  season  of  English  rural  enjoyment,  when  crops  had 
been  garnered,  and  rents  paid ;  when  the  farmer  rests  from  his 
toil,  and  the  squire  luxuriates  in  his  sports. 

Again  in  Vernon  Hall  were  noble  guests  assembled  ;  and  again 
the  inspiring  strains  of  harp  and  violin  told  time  to  the  fantastic 
gliding  of  feet. 

And  again  Maynard  danced  with  the  baronet's  daughter. 

She  was  young  to  take  part  in  such  entertainments.  But  it  was 
her  father's  house,  and  she  was  an  only  daughter — hence  almost 
necessitated  at  such  early  age  to  play  mistress  of  the  mansion. 

True  to  her.  promise,  she  had  read  the  romance,  and  declared 
her  opinion  of  it  to  the  anxious  author. 

She  liked  it,  though  not  enthusiastically.  She  did  not  say  this. 
Only  from  her  manner  could  Maynard  tell  there  was  a  qualifi- 
cation. Something  in  the  book  seemed  not  to  have  satisfied  her. 
He  could  not  conjecture  what  it  was.  He  was  too  disappointed 
to  press  for  an  explanation. 

Once  more  they  were  dancing  together,  this  time  in  a  valsc 
Country-bred  as  she  was,  she  waltzed  like  a  coryphee.  She  had 
taken  lessons  from  a  Creole  teacher,  while  resident  on  the  other 
side  of  the  Atlantic. 

Maynard  was  himself  no  mean  dancer,  and  she  was  just  the 
sort  of  partner  to  delight  him. 

Without  thought  of  harm,  in  the  abandon  of  girlish  innocence, 
she  rested  her  cheek  upon  his  shoulder,  and  went  spinning  round 
with  him — in  each  whirl  weaving  closer  the  spell  upon  his  heart 
And  without  thought  of  being  observed. 


Under  the  Deodara.  245 

But  she  was,  at  every  turn,  all  through  the  room,  both  she  and 
he.  Dowagers,  seated  along  the  sides,  ogled  them  through  their 
eye-glasses,  shook  their  false  curls,  and  made  muttered  remarks. 
Young  ladies,  two  seasons  out,  looked  envious — Lady  Mary  con- 
temptuous, almost  scowling. 

"  The  gilded  youth  "  did  not  like  it ;  least  of  all  Scudamore, 
who  strode  through  the  room  sulky  and  savage,  or  stood  watching 
the  sweep  of  his  cousin's  skirt,  as  though  he  could  have  torn  the 
dress  from  her  back  ! 

It  was  no  relief  to  him  when  the  valse  came  to  an  end. 

On  the  contrary,  it  but  increased  his  torture  ;  since  the  cc^ple 
he  was  so  jealously  observing,  walked  off,  arm-in-arm,  through  the 
conservatory,  and  out  into  the  grounds. 

There  was  nothing  strange  in  their  doing  so.  The  night  was 
warm,  and  the  doors  both  of  conservatory  and  drawing-room  set 
wide  open.  They  were  but  following  a  fashion.  Several  other 
couples  had  done  the  same.  , 

Whatever  may  be  said  of  England's  aristocracy,  they  have  not 
yet  reached  that  point  of  corruption,  to  make  appearances  sus- 
picious. They  may  still  point  with  pride  to  one  of  the  noblest  of 
their  national  mottoes  : — "  Hojii  soit  qui  vial y  pense." 

It  is  true  they  are  in  danger  of  forsaking  it;  under  that  baleful 
French  influence,  felt  from  the  other  side  of  the  Channel,  and  now 
extending  to  the  uttermost  ends  of  the  earth — even  across  the 
Atlantic. 

But  it  is  not  gone  yet ;  and  a  guest  admitted  into  the  house  of 
an  English  gentleman  is  not  presupposed  to  be  an  adventurer, 
stranger  though  he  be.  His  strolling  out  through  the  grounds, 
with  a  young  lady  for  sole  companion,  even  upon  a  starless  night, 
is  not  considered  outre — certainly  not  a  thing  for  scandal. 

Sir  Geoige  Vernon's  guest,  with  Sir  George's  daughter  on  his 
arm,  was  not  thinking  of  scandal,  as  they  threaded  the  mazes  of 
the  shrubbery  that  grew  contiguous  to  the  dwelling.  No  more, 
as  they  stopped  under  the  shadow  of  gigantic  deodara,  whose 
broad,  evergreen  fronds  extended  far  over  the  carefully  kept  turf. 

There  was  neither  moon  nor  stars  in  the  sky  ;  no  light  save  that 
dimly  reflected  through  the  glass  panelling  of  the  conservatory. 

They  were  alone,  or  appeared  so— secure  from  being  either 


246  The  Child  Wife, 


observed  or  overheard,  as  if  standing  amidst  the  depths  of  some 
primeval  forest,  or  the  centre  of  an  unpeopled  decert.  If  there 
were  others  near,  they  were  not  seen ;  if  speaking,  it  must  have 
been  in  whispers. 

Perhaps  this  feeling  of  security  gave  a  tone  to  their  conver- 
sation. At  all  events,  it  was  carried  on  with  a  freedom  from 
restraint,  hitherto  unused  between  them. 

"  You  have  travelled  a  great  deal  ?  "  said  the  young  girl,  as  t'h* 
two  came  to  a  stand  under  the  deodara. 

"Not  much  more  than  yourself,  Miss  Vernon.  You  have  been 
a  great  traveller,  if  I  mistake  not  ?  " 

"  I !  oh,  no  !  I've  only  been  to  one  of  the  West  India  islands, 
where  papa  was  Governor.  Then  to  New  York,  on  our  way  home. 
Since  to  some  of  the  capital  cities  of  Europe.     That's  all." 

"  A  very  fair  itinerary  for  one  of  your  age." 

"But  you  have  visited  many  strange  lands,  and  passed  through 
strange  scenes — scenes  of  danger,  as  I've  been  told." 

"  Who  told  you  that  ?  " 

"  I've  read  it.  I'm  not  so  young  as  to  be  denied  reading  the 
newspapers.  They've  spoken  of  you,  and  your  deeds.  Even 
had  we  never  met,  I  should  have  known  your  name." 

And  had  they  never  met,  Maynard  would  not  have  had  such 
happiness  as  was  his  at  that  moment.     This  was  his  reflection. 

"  My  deeds,  as  you  please  to  designate  them,  Miss  Vernon, 
have  been  but  ordinary  incidents ;  such  as  fall  to  the  lot  of  all 
who  travel  through  countries  still  in  a  state  of  nature,  and  where 
the  passions  of  men  are  uncontrolled  by  the  restraints  of  civilized 
life.  Such  a  country  is  that  lying  in  the  midst  of  the  American 
continent — the  prairies^  as  they  are  termed." 

"  Oh  !  the  prairies !  Those  grand  meadows  of  green,  and 
fields  of  flowers  1     How  I  should  like  to  visit  them !" 

"  It  would  not  be  altogether  a  safe  thing  for  you  to  do." 

"  I  know  that,  since  you  have  encountered  such  dangers  upon 
them.  How  well  you  have  described  them  in  your  book  1  I 
liked  that  part  very  much.     It  read  delightfully." 

"  But  not  all  the  book  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  it  is  aU  very  interesting ;  but  some  parti  of  the 
story '' 


Under  the  Deodara.  247 


"  Did  not  please  you,"  said  the  author,  giving  help  to  the 
hesitating  critic.  "  May  I  ask  what  portions  have  the  ill-luck  to 
deserve  your  condemnation  ?  " 

The  young  girl  was  for  a  moment  silent,  as  if  embarrassed  by 
the  question. 

"  Well,"  she  at  length  responded,  a  topic  occurring  to  relieve 
her.  "  I  did  not  like  to  think  that  white  men  made  war  upon  the 
poor  Indians,  just  to  take  their  scalps  and  sell  them  for  money. 
It  seems  such  an  atrocity.  Perhaps  the  story  is  not  all  true  ? 
May  I  hope  it  is  not  ?  " 

It  was  a  strange  question  to  put  to  an  author,  and  Maynard 
thought  so.     He  remarked  also  that  the  tone  was  strange. 

"  Well,  not  all,"  was  his  reply.  "  Of  course  the  book  is  put 
forth  as  a  romance,  though  some  of  the  scenes  described  in  it 
were  of  actual  occurrence.  I  grieve  to  say,  those  which  have 
given  you  dissatisfaction.  For  the  leader  of  the  sanguinary  expe- 
dition, of  which  it  is  an  account,  there  is  much  to  be  said  in 
palliation  of  what  may  be  called  his  crimes.  He  had  suffered 
terribly  at  the  hands  of  the  savage?.  With  him  the  motive  was 
not  gain,  not  even  retaliation.  He  gave  up  warring  against  the 
Indians,  after  recovering  his  daughter — so  long  held  captive 
among  them." 

"  And  his  other  daughter— Zoe — she  who  was  m  love — and  so 
young  too.  Much  younger  than  I  am.  Tell  me,  sir,  is  also  that 
true?" 

Why  was  this  question  put  ?  And  why  a  tremor  in  the  tone, 
that  told  of  an  interest  stronger  than  curiosity  ? 

Maynard  was  in  turn  embarrassed,  and  scarce  knew  what 
answer  to  make.  There  was  joy  in  his  heart,  as  he  mentally 
interpreted  her  meaning. 

He  thought  of  making  a  confession,  and  telling  her  the  whole 
truth. 

B     aad  the  time  come  for  it  ? 

He  reflected  "  not,"  and  continued  to  dissemble. 

"  Romance  writers,"  he  at  length  responded,  "  are  allowed  the 
privilege  of  creating  imaginary  characters.  Otherwise  they  would 
not  be  writers  of  romance.  These  characters  are  sometimes  drawn 
from  real  originals — not  necessarily  those  who  may  have  figured 


248  The  Child  Wife. 


in  the  actual  scenes  described — but  who  have  at  some  time,  and 
elsewhere,  made  an  impression  upon  the  mind  of  the  writer." 

"And  Zoe  was  one  of  these?" 

Still  a  touch  of  sadness  in  the  tone.  How  sweet  to  the  ears 
of  him  so  interrogated  1 

"  She  was,  and  is." 

"She  is  still  living?" 

"  Still  1" 

"  Of  course.  Why  should  I  have  thought  otherwise  ?  And 
she  must  yet  be  young  ?  " 

"Just  fifteen  years — almost  to  a  day." 

"  Indeed  !  what  a  singular  coincidence !  You  know  it  is  my 
age?" 

"  Miss  Vernon,  there  are  many  coincidences  stranger  than  that" 

"Ah !  true ;  but  I  could  not  help  thinking  of  it.     Could  I?  " 

°  Oh,  certainly  not — after  such  a  happy  birthday." 

"  It  was  happy — indeed  it  was.  I  have  not  been  so  happy 
since." 

"  I  hope  the  reading  of  my  story  has  not  saddened  you  ?  If  I 
thought  so,  I  should  regret  ever  having  written  it." 

"  Thanks  !  thanks  1  n  ^sponded  the  young  girl ;  "  it  is  very 
good  of  you  to  say  so." 

And  after  the  speech,  she  remained  silent  and  thoughtful 

"  But  you  tell  me  it  is  not  all  true  ? "  she  resumed  after 
a  pause.  "What  part  is  not?  You  say  that  Zoe  is  a  real 
character  ?  " 

"  She  is.  Perhaps  the  only  one  in  the  book  true  to  nature.  I 
can  answer  for  the  faithfulness  of  the  portrait.  She  was  in  my 
s<Jul  while  I  was  painting  it." 

"  Oh  1 "  exclaimed  his  companion,  with  a  half  suppressed  sigh. 
"  It  must  have  been  so.  I'm  sure  it  must.  Otherwise  how  could 
you  have  told  so  truly  how  she  would  feel  ?  I  was  of  her  age, 
and  I  know  it  1 " 

Maynard  listened  with  delight  Never  sounded  rhapsody 
sweeter  in  the  ears  of  an  author. 

The  baronet's  daughter  seemed  to  recover  herself.  It  may 
have  been  pride  of  position,  or  the  stronger  instinct  of  love  still 
hoping. 


Under  the  Deodara.  249 

"  Zoe,"  she  said.  "  It  is  a  very  beautiful  name — very  singular  ! 
I  have  no  right  to  ask  you,  but  I  cannot  restrain  my  curiosity. 
Is  it  her  real  name  ?  " 

"  It  is  not.  And  you  are  the  only  one  in  the  world  who  has 
the  right  to  know  what  that  is." 

"  I  !     For  what  reason  ?  " 

"  Because  it  is  yours !  "  answered  he,  no  longer  able  to  with- 
hold the  truth.  "  Yours  !  Yes ;  the  Zoe  of  my  romance  is  but 
the  portrait  of  a  beautiful  child,  first  seen  upon  a  Cunard  steamer. 
Since  grown  to  be  a  girl  still  more  attractive^  beautiful.  And 
since  thought  of  by  him  who  saw  her,  till  the  thought  became  a 
passion  that  must  seek  expression  in  words.  It  sought ;  and  has 
found  it.  Zoe  is  the  result— the  portrait  of  Blanche  Vernon, 
painted  by  one  who  loves,  who  would  be  willing  to  die  for  her !  " 

At  this  impassioned  speech,  the  baronet's  daughter  trembled. 
But  not  as  in  fear.  On  the  contrary,  it  was  joy  that  was  stirring 
within  her  heart. 

And  this  heart  was  too  young,  and  too  guileless,  either  to  con- 
ceal or  be  ashamed  of  its  emotions.  There  was  no  show  of  con- 
cealment in  the  quick,  ardent  interrogatories  that  followed. 

"  Captain  Maynard,  is  this  true  ?  Or  have  you  spoken  but  to 
flatter  me  ?  " 

"  True  !  "  replied  he,  in  the  same  impassioned  tone.  "  It  is 
true !  From  the  hour  when  I  first  saw  you,  you  have  never  been 
out  of  my  mind.  You  never  will.  It  may  be  folly — madness — 
but  I  can  never  cease  thinking  of  you." 

"  Nor  I  of  you  ! " 

"  Oh,  heavens  !  can  this  be  so  ?  Is  my  presentiment  to  be 
fulfilled  ?     Blanche  Vernon  !  do  you  love  me?" 

"A  strange  question  to  put  to  a  child  f" 

The  remark  was  made  by  one,  who  had  hitherto  had  no  share 
in  the  conversation.  Maynard's  blood  ran  cold,  as,  under  the 
shadow  of  the  deodara^  he  recognised  the  tall  figure  of  Sir  George 

Vernon  S 

•  •••• 

It  was  not  yet  twelve  o'clock.  There  was  still  time  for  Captain 
Maynard  to  catch  the  night  mail ;  and  by  it  he  returned  to 
London. 


CHAPTER  LIL 

THE   ILLUSTRIOUS    EXILE. 

Thb  revolutionary  era  had  ended  ;  tranquillity  was  restored ;  and 
peace  ieigned  throughout  Europe. 

But  it  was  a  peace  secured  by  chains,  and  supported  by 
bayonets. 

Manin  was  dead,  Hecker  an  exile  in  transatlantic  lands,  Blum 
had  been  murdered — as  also  a  score  of  other  distinguished  revolu- 
tionary leaders. 

But  there  were  two  still  surviving,  whose  names  caused  un- 
easiness to  despotism  from  the  Baltic  to  the  Mediterranean — from 
the  Euxine  to  the  Atlantic. 

These  names  were  Kossuth  and  Mazzini. 

Despite  the  influence  used  to  blacken  them — the  whole  power 
of  a  corrupted  press — they  were  still  sounds  of  magical  import ; 
symbols  that  at  any  day  might  stir  up  the  peoples  to  strike 
one  other  blow  for  freedom.  More  especially  was  this  true  of 
Kossuth.  Some  rashness  shown  by  Mazzini — a  belief  that  his 
doctrines  were  too  red — in  other  words,  too  far  advanced  for  the 
time — stinted  the  confidence  of  the  more  moderate  in  the  liberal 
party. 

It  was  otherwise  with  the  views  of  Kossuth.  These  had  all 
along  been  strictly  in  accordance  with  conservatism — aiming  only 
at  national  independence  upon  a  presumed  republican  basis.  Of 
the  reftiblique  rouge  et  democrat! que  talked  of  in  France,  he 
had  never  given  assent  to  the  rouge,  and  but  partially  to  the 
dkmocratique. 

If  the  future  historian  can  ever  find  flaw  in  the  character  of 
Kossuth,  it  will  be  in  the  fact  of  his  having  been  too  conservative; 
or  rather  too  national,  and  not  enough  developed  in  the  idea  of  a 
universal  propagandism. 

Too  much  was  he,  as  unfortunately  most  men  are,  a  believer  w 


The  Illustrious  £xiii.  2$i 


non-interference ;  that  so*"1  Lin  of  international  comity  which 
pettzite  the  King  of  Dahomey  to  kill  his  subjects  to  his  heart's 
content,  and  the  King  of  Yiti-Vau  to  eat  his,  to  the  satisfaction  of 
his  stomach. 

This  limitation  in  the  principles  of  the  Magyar  chief  was  the 
only  thing  in  his  character,  known  to  the  writer,  that  will  exclude 
him  from  being  considered  truly,  grandly  great. 

It  may  have  been  only  assumed — it  is  to  be  hoped  so — to 
contribute  to  the  success  of  his  noble  purposes. 

It  certainly  tended  to  this  -  by  securing  him  the  confidence  of 
the  more  timid  adherents  of  the  revolutionary  cause. 

But  there  was  another  influence  in  his  favour,  and  against  the 
triumphant  despots.  All  knew  that  the  failure  of  the  Hungarian 
revolution  was  due  to  causes  over  which  Kossuth  had  no  control 
— in  short,  to  the  blackest  treachery  on  record.  That  with  un- 
erring genius,  and  all  his  soul's  energy,  he  had  protected  against 
the  courses  that  led  to  it ;  and,  to  the  last  hour,  had  held  out 
against  the  counsels  of  the  wavering  and  the  wicked.  Not  by  his 
own  consent,  but  by  force,  had  he  succumbed  to  them. 

It  was  the  knowledge  of  this  that  lent  that  magical  influence  to 
his  name — every  day  growing  stronger,  as  the  story  of  Georgei's 
treason  became  better  understood. 

Expelled  from  his  own  land,  he  had  sought  an  asylum  in 
England. 

Having  gone  through  the  fanfaron  of  a  national  welcome,  in  th: 
ohape  of  cheap  receptions  and  monster  meetings — having  p. 
the  entire  ordeal,  without  succumbing  to  flattery,  or  giving  his 
enemies   the   slightest  cue  for    lidicule — this   singular   man 

settled  down  in  a  modest  suburban   residence  in    the   west 

district  of  London. 

There  in  the  bosom  of  his  beloved  family — a  wife  and  daughter, 
with  two  sons,  noble  youths,  who  will  yet  add  lustre  to  the  name 
—  he  seemed  only  desirous  of  escaping  from  that  noisy  hospitality, 
by  this  time  known  to  him  to  be  nothing  but  the  emptiest 
ostentation. 

A  few  public  dinners,  cooked  by  such  coarse  caterers  as  the 
landlords  of  the  London  or  Freemasons'  Tavern,  were  all  of 
English  cheer  Kossuth  ever  tasted,  and  all  he  cared  to  claim. 


253  The  Child  Wife. 


In  his  home  he  was  not  only  permitted  to  purchase  everything 
out  of  his  own  sadly  attenuated  purse,  but  was  cheated  by  almost 
every  tradesman  with  whom  he  had  to  deal  ;  and  beyond  the 
ordinary  extortion,  on  the  strength  of  his  being  a  stranger  ! 

This  was  the  sort  of  hospitality  extended  by  England  to  the 
illustrious  exile,  and  of  which  her  Tory  press  have  made  so  much 
boast  !  But  that  press  has  not  told  us  how  he  was  encompassed 
by  British  spies — by  French  ones  also,  in  British  pay — watched 
in  his  outgoings  and  incomings — tracked  in  his  daily  walks — his 
friends  as  well — and  under  constant  incitement  through  secret 
agencies  to  do  something  that  would  commit  him,  and  give  a 
colourable  chance  for  bringing  his  career  to  a  close  ! 

The  outside  world  believed  it  had  come  to  this;  that  the 
power  of  the  great  revolutionist  was  broken  for  ever,  and  his 
influence  at  an  end. 

But  the  despots  knew  better.  They  knew  that  as  long  as  Kos- 
suth lived,  with  character  unattainted,  scarce  a  king  in  Europe 
that  did  not  need  to  sit  trembling  on  his  throne.  Even  Eng- 
land's model  queen,  or  rather  the  German  prince  who  then 
controlled  the  destinies  of  the  English  nation,  understood  the 
influence  that  attached  to  Kossuth's  name,  whilst  the  latter  was 
among  the  most  active  of  those  secret  agents  who  were  endea- 
vouring to  destroy  it. 

The  hostility  of  the  royal  family  of  England  to  the  ex-dictator  of 
Hungary  is  easily  understood.  It  had  a  double  source  of  inspira- 
tion :  fear  of  the  republican  form,  and  a  natural  leaning  to  the 
alliance  of  kinship.  The  crowns  of  Austria  and  England  are 
closely  united  in  the  liens  of  a  blood-relationship.  In  the  success 
of  Kossuth  would  be  the  ruin  of  cousins-german  and  German 
cousins. 

It  was  then  the  interest  of  all  crowned  heads  to  effect  his  ruin 
— if  not  in  body,  at  least  in  reputation.  His  fame,  coupled  with 
a  spotless  character,  shielded  him  from  the  ordinary  dangers  of  the 
outlaw.  The  world's  public  opinion  stood  in  the  way  of  their 
taking  his  life,  or  even  consigning  him  to  a  prison. 

But  there  was  still  the  chance  of  rendering  him  innocuous— by 
blasting  his  reputation,  and  so  depriving  him  of  the  sympathy  that 
had  hitherto  upheld  hira. 


The  Illustrious  Exile.  253 


For  this  purpose  the  press  was  employed— and  notoriously  the 
leading  journal :  that  instrument  ever  ready,  at  a  price,  for  pur- 
poses of  oppression. 

Openly  and  secretly  it  assailed  him,  by  base  accusations,  and 
baser  insinuations. 

He  was  defended  by  a  young  writer,  who  had  but  lately  made 
his  appearance  in  the  world  of  London,  becoming  known  through 
the  achievement  of  a  literary  triumph ;  and  so  successfully  de- 
fended, that  the  Kossuth  slanders,  like  curses,  came  back  into  the 
teeth  of  those  who  had  uttered  them. 

In  its  long  career  of  tergiversation,  never  had  this  noted  news- 
paper been  driven  into  such  a  position  of  shame.  There  was  a 
whole  day,  during  which  it  was  chaffed  on  the  Stock  Exchange, 
and  laughed  at  in  the  London  clubs. 

It  has  not  forgotten  that  day  of  humiliation  ;  and  often  has 'it 
given  its  antagonist  cause  to  remember  it.  It  has  since  taken 
ample  revenge — by  using  its  immense  power  to  blast  his  literary 
reputation. 

He  thought  not  of  this  while  writing  those  letters  in  defence  of 
freedom  and  justice.  Nor  did  he  care,  so  long  as  this  object 
might  be  attained. 

It  was  attained.  The  character  of  the  great  Magyar  came  out 
stainless  and  triumphant— to  the  chagrin  of  suborned  scribblers, 
and  the  despots  who  had  suborned  them. 

Cleared  in  the  eyes  of  the  "  nationalities,"  Kossuth  was  still 
dangerous  to  the  crowns  of  Europe — now  more  than  ever. 

The  press  had  failed  to  befoul  him.  Other  means  must  be 
employed  to  bring  about  his  destruction. 

And  other  means  were  employed.  A  plot  was  conceived  to 
deprive  him,  not  alone  of  his  reputation,  but  his  life.  An  atrocity 
so  incredible,  that  in  giving  an  account  of  it  I  can  scarce  expect 
to  be  believed  ! 

It  is  nevertheless  true. 


CHAPTER  LIIL 

A   KINGLY   SCHEME   OF    REVOLUTION. 

Once  more  met  the  conclave  of  crowned  heads,  by  their  represen- 
tatives ;  no  longer  in  the  palace  of  the  Tuileries,  but  in.the  mansion 
of  an  English  nobleman. 

This  time  the  ex-dictator  of  Hungary  was  the  subject  of  their 
deliberations. 

"  So  long  as  he  lives,"  said  the  commissioner  of  that  crown 
most  nearly  concerned,  "so  long  will  there  be  danger  to  our 
empire.  A  week,  a  day,  a  single  hour,  may  witness  its  dissolution  ; 
and  you  know,  gentlemen,  what  must  follow  from  that !  " 

It  was  an  Austrian  field-marshal  who  thus  spoke. 

"  From  that  would  follow  an  emperor  without  a  crown — per- 
haps without  a  head  !  " 

The  rejoinder  came  from  the  joking  gentleman  who  was  master 
of  the  mansion  in  which  the  conspirators  were  assembled. 

"  But  is  it  really  so  serious  ?  "  asked  the  Russian  grand-duke. 
"  Do  you  not  much  overrate  the  influence  of  this  man  ?  " 

"  Not  any,  altesse.  We  have  taken  pains  to  make  ourselves 
acquainted  with  it.  Our  emissaries,  sent  throughout  Hungary, 
report  that  there  is  scarce  a  house  in  the  land  where  prayers  are 
not  nightly  put  up  for  him.  By  grand  couch  and  cottage-bed  the 
d  ild  is  taught  to  speak  the  name  of  Kossuth  more  fervently  thar 
that  of  Christ — trained  to  look  to  him  as  its  future  saviour.  Wha\ 
can  come  of  this  but  another  rising — a  revolution  that  may  spread 
to  every  kingdom  in  Europe  ?  " 

"  Do  you  include  the  empires  ?"  asked  the  facetious  English- 
man, glancing  significantly  toward  the  grand-duke. 

"  Ay,  do  I.     And  the  islands,  too,"  retorted  the  field-marshal. 

The  Russian  grinned.  The  Prussian  diplomatist  looked  incredu- 
lous. Not  so  the  representative  of  France ;  who,  in  a  short  speech 
acknowledged  the  danger.  To  his  master  a  European  revolution 
would  have  been  fatal,  as  to  himself. 


A  Kingly  Scheme  of  Revolution.  255 

And  yet  it  was  he,  whose  country  had  least  to  fear  from  it,  who 
suggested  the  vile  plan  for  its  avoidance.  It  came  from  the  repre- 
sentative of  England  ! 

"  You  think  Kossuth  is  your  chief  danger  ?  "  he  said,  address- 
ing himself  to  the  Austrian. 

"  We  know  it.  We  don't  care  for  Mazzini,  with  his  wild  schemes 
on  the  Italian  side.  The  people  there  begin  to  think  him  mad 
Our  danger  lies  upon  the  Danube." 

"  And  your  safety  can  only  be  secured  by  action  on  the  south 
side  of  the  Alps." 

"  How  ?  In  what  way  ?  By  what  action  ?  "  were  questions 
simultaneously  put  by  the  several  conspirators. 

"  Explain  yourself,  my  lord,"  said  the  Austrian,  appealingly. 

"  Bah  !  It's  the  simplest  thing  in  the  world.  You  want  the 
Hungarian  in  your  power.  The  Italian,  you  say,  you  don't  care 
for.  But  you  may  as  well,  while  you're  about  it,  catch  both,  and 
half  a  score  of  other  smaller  fish — all  of  whom  you  can  easily  get 
into  your  net." 

"  They  are  all  here  !     Do  you  intend  giving  them  up?" 

"  Ha — ha — ha  ! "  laughed  the  light-hearted  lord.  "  You  forget 
you're  in  free  England  !  To  do  that  would  be  indeed  a  danger. 
No — no.  We  islanders  are  not  so  imprudent.  There  are  other 
ways  to  dispose  of  these  troublesome  strangers,  without  making 
open  surrender  of  them." 

"  Other  ways  !     Name  them  !     Name  one  of  them  ! " 
.    The  demand  came  from  his  fellow-conspirators — all  speaking  in 
a  breath. 

"  Well,  one  way  seems  easy  enough.  There's  a  talk  of  trouble 
in  Milan.  Your  white-coats  are  not  popular  in  that  Italian 
metropolis,  field-marshal !     So  my  despatches  tell  me/' 

"  What  of  that,  my  lord  ?  We  have  a  strong  garrison  at  Milan. 
Plenty  of  Bohemians,  with  our  ever  faithful  Tyrolese.  It  is  true 
there  are  several  Hungarian  regiments  there." 

11  Just  so.  And  in  these  lies  the  chance  of  revolutionary  leaders. 
Your  chance,  if  you  skilfully  turn  it  to  account." 

"How  skilfully?" 

"  Mazzini  is  tampering  with  them.  So  I  understand  it.  Maz- 
sini  is  a  madman.     Therefore  let  him  go  on  with  his  game.     En- 


256  The  Child  Wife, 


courage  him.  Let  him  draw  Kossuth  into  the  scheme.  The 
Magyar  will  be  sure  to  take  the  bait,  if  you  but  set  it  as  it  should 
be.  Send  mutinous  men  among  these  Hungarian  regiment* 
Throw  out  a  hope  of  their  being  able  to  raise  a  revolt— bj 
joining  the  Italian  people.  It  will  lure,  not  only  Mazzini  and 
Kossuth,  but  along  with  them  the  whole  fraternity  of  revolutionary 
firebrands.  Once  in  your  net,  you  should  know  how  to  deal  with 
such  fish,  without  any  suggestion  from  me.  They  are  too  strong 
for  any  meshes  we  dare  weave  around  them  here.  Gentlemen,  I 
hope  you  understand  me  ?  " 

"  Perfectly  !  "  responded  all. 

"A  splendid  idea!"  added  the  representative  from  France, 
"  It  would  be  a  coup  worthy  of  the  genius  who  has  conceived  it 
Field-marshal,  you  will  act  upon  this?" 

A  superfluous  question.  The  Austrian  deputy  was  but  too 
happy  to  carry  back  to  his  master  a  suggestion,  to  which  he  knew 
he  would  gladly  give  his  consent ;  and  after  another  half-hour 
spent  in  talking  over  its  details,  the  conspirators  separated. 

"  It  is  an  original  idea  !  "  soliloquized  the  Englishman,  as  he  sat 
smoking  his  cigar  after  the  departure  of  his  guests.  "A  splendid 
idea,  as  my  French  friend  has  characterized  it.  I  shall  have  my 
revanche  against  this  proud  refugee  for  the  slight  he  has  put  upon 
me  in  the  eyes  of  the  English  people.  Ah  !  Monsieur  Kossuth  1 
if  I  foresee  aright,  your  revolutionary  aspirations  will  soon  come 
to  an  end.  Yes,  my  noble  demagogue  1  your  days  of  being  danger- 
ous are  as  good  as  numbered  ! " 


CHAPTER  LIV. 

A   DESIRABLE   NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

Lying  west  of  the  Regent's  Park,  and  separated  from  it  by  Park 
Road,  is  a  tract  of  land  sparsely  studded  with  those  genteel  cot- 
tages which  the  Londoner  delights  to  invest  with  the  more  aristo- 
cratic appellation  of  "villas." 

Each  stands  in  its  own  grounds  of  a  quarter  to  half  an  acre, 
embowered  in  a  shrubbery  of  lilacs,  laburnums,  and  laurels. 

They  are  of  all  styles  of  architecture  known  to  ancient  or 
modern  times.  And  of  all  sizes  ;  though  the  biggest  of  them,  in 
real  estate  value,  is  not  worth  the  tenth  part  of  the  ground  it 
Occupies. 

From  this  it  may  be  inferred  that  they  are  leaseholds,  soon  to 
lapse  to  the  fee-simple  owner  of  the  soil. 

The  same  will  explain  their  generally  dilapidated  condition,  and 
the  neglect  observable  about  their  grounds. 

It  was  different  a  few  years  ago  ;  wh«i  their  leases  had  some 
time  to  run,  and  it  was  worth  while  keeping  them  in  repair.  Then, 
if  not  fashionable,  they  were  at  least  "  desirable  residences  " ;  and 
a  villa  in  St.  John's  Wood  (the  name  of  the  neighbourhood)  was 
the  ambition  of  a  retired  tradesman.  There  he  could  have  his 
grounds,  his  shrubbery,  his  walks,  and  even  six  feet  of  a  fish-pond. 
There  he  could  sit  in  the  open  air,  in  tasselled  robe  and  smoking- 
cap,  or  stroll  about  amidst  a  Pantheon  of  plaster-of-paris  statues — 
imagining  himself  a  Maecenas. 

Indeed,  so  classic  in  their  ideas  have  been  the  residents  of  this 
district,  that  one  of  its  chief  thoroughfares  is  called  Alpha  Road, 
another  Omega  Terrace. 

St  John's  Wood  was,  and  still  is,  a  favourite  place  of  abode  for 
"  professionals  " — for  the  artist,  the  actor,  and  the  second-class 
author.  The  rents  are  moderate — the  villas,  most  of  them,  being 
small 


258  The  Child  Wife. 


Shorn  of  its  tranquil  pleasures,  the  villa  district  of  St.  John's 
Wood  will  soon  disappear  from  the  chart  of  London.  Already 
encompassed  by  close-built  streets,  it  will  itself  soon  be  covered 
by  compact  blocks  of  dwellings,  rendering  the  family  of  "  Eyre" 
one  of  the  richest  in  the  land. 

Annually  the  leases  are  lapsing,  and  piles  of  building  bricks 
begin  to  appear  in  grounds  once  verdant  with  close-cut  lawngrasi*, 
and  copsed  with  roses  and  rhododendrons. 

Through  this  quarter  runs  the  Regent's  Canal,  its  banks  on  both 
sides  rising  high  above  the  water  level,  in  consequence  of  a  swell 
in  the  ground  that  required  a  cutting.  It  passes  under  Park  Road, 
into  the  Regent's  Park,  and  through  this  eastward  to  the  City. 

In  its  traverse  of  the  St.  John's  Wood  district,  its  sides  are 
occupied  by  a  double  string  .  of  dwellings,  respectively  called 
North  and  South  Bank,  each  fronted  by  another  row  with  a  lamp- 
lit  road  running  between. 

They  are  varied  in  style  ;  many  of  them  of  picturesque  appear- 
ance, and  all  more  or  less  embowered  in  shrubbery. 

Those  bordering  on  the  canal  have  gardens  sloping  down  to  the 
water's  edge,  and  quite  private  on  the  side  opposite  to  the  tow- 
path — which  is  the  southern. 

Ornamental  evergreens,  with  trees  of  the  weeping  kind,  droop- 
ing over  the  water,  render  these  back-gardens  exceedingly  attrac- 
tive. Standing  upon  the  bridge  in  Park  Road,  and  looking  west 
up  the  canal  vista,  you  could  scarce  believe  yourself  to  be  in  the 
city  of  London,  and  surrounded  by  closely  packed  buildings  ex- 
tending more  than  a  mile  beyond. 


In  one  of  the  South  Bank  villas,  with  grounds  running  back  to 
the  canal,  dwelt  a  Scotchman — of  the  name  M'Tavish. 

He  »vas  but  a  second-class  clerk  in  a  city  banking-house;  but 
being  a  Scotchman,  he  might  count  upon  one  day  becoming  chief 
of  the  concern. 

Perhaps  with  some  foreshadowing  of  such  a  fortune,  he  had 
leased  the  villa  in  question,  and  furnished  it  to  the  extent  of  his 
means. 

It  was  one  of  the  prettiest  in  the  string — quite  good  enough  iot 


A  Desirable  Neighbourhood.  259 

a  joint-stock  banker  to  live  in,  or  die  in.  MTavish  had  deter- 
mined to  do  the  former ;  and  the  latter,  if  the  event  should  occur 
within  the  limits  of  his  lease,  which  extended  to  twenty-one  years. 

The  Scotchman,  prudent  in  other  respects,  had  been  rash  in 
the  selection  of  his  residence.  He  had  not  been  three  days  in 
occupation,  when  he  discovered  that  a  notorious  courtesan  lived 
on  his  light,  another  of  less  celebrity  on  his  left,  while  the  house 
directly  fronting  him,  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  road,  was  occu- 
pied by  a  famed  revolutionary  leader,  and  frequented  by  political 
refugees  from  all  parts  of  the  disturbed  world. 

M'Tavish  was  dismayed.  He  had  subscribed  to  a  twenty-one 
years'  lease,  at  a  full  rack-rental ;  for  he  had  acted  under  conjugal 
authority  in  taking  the  place. 

Had  he  been  a  bachelor  the  thing  might  have  signified  less. 
But  he  was  a  benedict,  with  daughters  nearly  grown  up.  Besides 
he  was  a  Presbyterian  of  the  strictest  sect — his  wife  being  still 
tighter  laced  than  himself.  Both,  moreover,  were  loyalists  of  the 
truest  type. 

His  morality  made  the  proximity  of  his  right  and  left  hand 
neighbours  simply  intolerable — while  his  politics  rendered  equally 
a  nuisance  the  revolutionary  focus  in  his  front. 

There  seemed  no  escape  from  the  dilemma,  but  to  make  sacri- 
fice of  his  dearly-bought  premises,  or  drown  himself  in  the  canal 
that  bordered  them  at  the  back. 

As  the  drowning  would  not  have  benefitted  Mrs.  M'Tavish,  she 
persuaded  him  against  this  idea,  and  in  favour  of  selling  the  lease. 

Alas,  for  the  imprudent  bank  clerk  1  nobody  could  be  found  to 
buy  it — unless  at  such  a  reduced  rate  as  would  have  ruined  him. 

He  was  a  Scotchman,  and  could  not  stand  this.  Far  better  to 
stick  to  the  house. 

And  for  a  time  he  stuck  to  it 

There  seemed  no  escape  from  it,  but  by  sacrificing  the  lease. 
It  was  a  tooth-drawing  alternative  ;  but  could  not  be  avoided. 

As  the  husband  and  wife  were  discussing  the  question,  can- 
vassing it  in  every  shape,  they  were  interrupted  by  a  ring  at  the 
gate  bell  lc  was  the  evening  hour ;  when  the  bank  clerk  having 
returned  from  the  city,  was  playing  paterfamilias  in  the  bosom  of 
his  family. 


2<5o  The  Child   Wife. 


Who  could  be  calling  at  that  hour  ?  It  was  too  late  for  a  cere- 
monial visit.  Perhaps  some  unceremonious  acquaintance  from 
the  Land  of  Cakes,  dropping  in  for  a  pipe,  and  a  glass  of  whisky- 
toddy  ? 

"  There's  yin  ootside  weeshes  to  see  ye,  maister." 

This  was  said  by  a  rough-skinned  damsel — the  "  maid-of-all- 
•*ork  " — who  had  shown  her  freckled  face  inside  the  parlour  door, 
and  whose  patois  proclaimed  her  to  have  come  from  the  same 
country  as  M'Tavish  himself. 

"  Wishes  to  see  me  !     Who  is  it,  Maggie  ?  " 

"  Dinna  ken  who.  It's  a  rank  stranger — a  quare-lookin'  callant, 
wi'  big  beard,  and  them  sort  o'  whiskers  they  ca'  moostachoes.  I 
made  free  to  ax  him  his  bisness.  He  sayed  'twas  aboot  taakhV 
the  h.  os." 

"  About  taking  the  house  ?  " 

"  Yis,  maister.     He  sayed  he'd  beared  o'  its  bein'  to  let" 

"  Show  him  in  !  " 

M'Tavish  sprang  to  his  feet,  overturning  the  chair  on  which  he 
had  been  seated.  Mrs.  M.,  and  her  trio  of  flaxen-haired  daugh- 
ters, scuttled  off  into  the  back  parlour — as  if  a  tiger  was  about  to 
be  uncaged  in  the  front  one. 

They  were  not  so  frightened,  however,  as  to  hinder  them  from, 
in  turn,  flattening  their  noses  against  a  panel  of  the  partition-door, 
and  scrutinizing  the  stranger  through  the  keyhole. 

"  How  handsome  he  is  ! "  exclaimed  Elspie,  the  eldest  of  the 
girls. 

"  Quite  a  military-looking  man  !  *  said  the  second,  Jane,  after 
having  completed  her  scrutiny.     "  I  wonder  if  he's  married." 

"  Come  away  from  there,  children ! "  muttered  the  mother. 
"  He  may  hear  you,  and  your  papa  will  be  very  angry.  Come 
away;  I  tell  you  !  " 

The  girls  slunk  back  from  the  door,  and  took  seats  upon  a  sofa. 

But  their  mother's  curiosity  had  also  to  be  appeased ;  and, 
with  an  example  that  corresponded  ill  with  her  precept,  she 
dropped  down  upon  her  knees,  and  first  placing  her  eye,  and 
afterward  her  ear,  to  the  key-hole,  listened  to  every  word  spoken 
between  her  husband  and  his  strange  visitor  with  the  "whiskeii 
called  moo8tacboea.,, 


CHAPTER  LV. 

A  TENANT  SECURED. 

The  visitor  thus  introduced  to  the  South  Bank  villa  wa&a  man 
of  about  thirty  years  of  age,  with  the  air  and  demeanour  of  a 
gentleman. 

The  city  clerk  could  tell  him  to  be  of  the  West  End  type.  It 
was  visible  in  the  cut  of  his  dress,  the  tonsure  of  his  hair,  and  the 
joining  of  the  moustache  to  his  whiskers. 

"Mr.  M'Tavish,  I  presume?"  were  the  words  that  came  from 
him,  as  he  passed  through  the  parlour  door. 

The  Scotchman  nodded  assent.  Before  he  could  do  more,  the 
stranger  continued  : 

"  Pardon  me,  sir,  for  this  seeming  intrusion.  I've  heard  that 
your  house  is  to  let." 

"  Not  exactly  to  let.    I'm  offering  it  for  sale — that  is,  the  lease." 

"  Fve  been  misinformed  then.  How  long  has  the  lease  to  run, 
may  I  ask  ?  " 

"  Twenty-one  years." 

"  Ah !  that  will  not  suit  me.  I  wanted  a  house  only  for  a 
short  time.  I've  taken  a  fancy  to  this  South  Bank — at  least,  my 
wife  has  ;  and  you  know,  sir — I  presume  you're  a  married  man — 
that's  everything." 

M'Tavish  did  know  it,  to  a  terrible  certainty :  and  gave  an 
assenting  smile. 

"  I'm  sorry,"  pursued  the  stranger.  "  I  like  the  house  bettel 
than  any  on  the  Bank.  I  know  my  wife  would  be  charmed  with 
it." 

"  It's  the  same  with  mine,"  said  M'Tavish. 

"  How  you  lie  I "  thought  Mrs.  Mac,  with  her  ear  at  the  key- 
hole." 

"  In  that  case,  I  presume  there's  no  chance  of  our  coming  to 
terms.  I  should  have  been  glad  to  take  it  by  the  year — for  one 
year,  certain— and  at  a  good  rent" 


262  The  Child  Wife. 


"  How  much  would  you  be  inclined  to  give  ?  w  asked  the  lessee, 
bethinking  him  of  a  compromise. 

"  Well ;  I  scarcely  know.     How  much  do  you  ask  ?w 

11  Furnished,  or  unfurnished  ?  " 

"  I'd  prefer  having  it  furnished." 

The  bank  clerk  commenced  beating  his  brains.  He  thought 
of  his  penates,  and  the  objection  his  wife  might  have  to  parting 
with  them.  But  he  thought  also,  of  how  they  had  been  daily  dis- 
honoured in  that  unhallowed  precinct. 

Even  while  reflecting,  a  pean  of  spasmodic  revelry,  heard  on 
the  other  side  of  the  paling,  sounded  suggestive  in  his  ears  ? 

It  decided  him  to  concede  the  furniture,  and  on  terms  lest 
exacting  than  he  might  otherwise  have  asked  for. 

"  For  a  year  certain,  you  say  ?  • 

"  I'll  take  it  for  a  year ;  and  pay  in  advance,  if  you  desire  it." 

A  year's  rent  in  advance  is  always  tempting  to  a  landlord — 
especially  a  poor  one.  M'Tavish  was  not  rich,  whatever  might 
be  his  prospects  in  regard  to  the  presidency  of  the  bank. 

His  wife  would  have. given  something  to  have  had  his  ear 
at  the  opposite  orifice  of  the  keyhole;  so  that  she  could  have 
whispered  "  Take  it !  " 

"How  much,  you  ask,  for  the  house  furnished,  and  by  the 
year?" 

"  Precisely  so,"  answered  the  stranger. 

'•  Let  me  see,"  answered  M'Tavish,  reflecting.  "  My  own  rent 
unfurnished — repairs  covenanted  in  the  lease — price  of  the  fur- 
niture— interest  thereon — well,  I  could  say  two  hundred  pounds 
per  annum." 

"  I'll  take  it  at  two  hundred.     Do  you  agree  to  that  ?  " 

The  bank  clerk  was  electrified  with  delight.  Two  hundred 
pounds  a  year  would  be  cent.-per-cenL  on  his  own  outlay.  Besides 
he  would  get  rid  of  the  premises,  for  at  least  one  year,  and  along 
with  them  the  proximity  of  his  detestable  neighbours.  Any  sacri- 
fice to  escape  from  this. 

He  would  have  let  go  house  and  grounds  at  half  the  price. 

But  he,  the  stranger,  was  not  cunning,  and  M'Tavish  was 
shrewd.  Seeing  this,  he  not  only  adhered  to  the  two  hundred, 
but  stipulated  for  the  removal  of  some  portion  of  his  furniture, 


A    Tenant  Secured.  263 

"Only  a  few  family  pieces,"  be  said;  "things  that  a  tenant 
would  not  care  to  be  troubled  with." 

The  stranger  was  not  exacting,  and  the  concession  was  made. 

"Your  name,  sir?"  asked  the  tenant  intending  to  go  out. 

"  Swinton,"  answered  the  tenant  who  designed  coming  ir, 
"  Richard  Swinton.  Here  is  my  card,  Mr.  MTavish;  and  mj 
reference  is  Lord " 

The  bank  clerk  took  the  card  into  his  trembling  fingers. 
His  wife,  on  the  other  side  of  the  door,  had  a  sensation  in  her 
ear  resembling  an  electric  shock. 

A  tenant  with  a  lord — a  celebrated  lord — for  his  referee  ! 

She  could  scarce  restrain  herself  from  shouting  through  the 
keyhole : 

"  Close  with  him,  Mac  ! " 

But  Mac  needed  not  the  admonition.  He  had  already  made 
up  his  mind  to  the  letting. 

"How  soon  do  you  wish  to  come  in?"  he  asked  of  the 
applicant. 

"  As  soon  as  possible,"  was  the  answer.  "  To-morrow,  if  con- 
venient to  you." 

"  To-morrow  !  "  echoed  the  cool  Scotchman,  unaccustomed  to 
such  quick  transactions,  and  somewhat  surprised  at  the  proposal. 

"  I  own  it's  rather  unusual,"  said  the  incoming  tenant.  "  But, 
Mr.  M'Tavish,  I  have  a  reason  for  wishing  it  so.  It's  somewhat 
delicate ;  but  as  you  are  a  married  man,  and  the  father  of  a  family, 
— you  understand  ?  " 

11  Perfectly  !  "  pronounced  the  Scotch  paterfamilias,  his  breast 
almost  turning  as  tender  as  that  of  his  better  half,  then  sympa- 
thetically throbbing  behind  the  partition  door. 


The  sudden  transfer  was  agreed  to.  Next  day  Mr.  M'Tavish 
and  his  family  moved  out,  Mr.  Swinton  having  signed  the  agree- 
ment, and  given  a  cheque  for  the  year's  rent  in  advance— scarce 
necessary  after  being  endorsed  by  such  a  distinguished  referee. 


CHAPTER   LVI. 

DRESS     REHEARSAL. 

The  revolutionary  leader  who  had  taken  up  his  residence  vis-&-vis 
to  the  M'Tavish  villa,  and  whose  politics  were  so  offensive  toiti 
royal  lessee,  was  no  other  than  the  ex-dictator  of  Hungary. 

The  new  tenant  had  been  made  aware  of  this  before  entering 
upon  occupation.  Not  by  his  landlord,  but  the  man  under  whose 
instructions  he  had  taken  the  house. 

The  proximity  of  the  refugee  head-quarters  was  partly  the  cause 
of  Mr.  M'Tavish  being  so  anxious  to  go  out.  It  was  the  sole 
reason  why  Swinton  had  shown  himself  so  anxious  to  come  in ! 

Swinton  had  this  knowledge,  and  no  more.  The  motive  for 
putting  him  in  possession  had  not  yet  been  revealed  to  him.  He 
had  been  instructed  to  take  that  particular  house,  coute  que  coute ; 
and  he  had  taken  it  as  told,  at  a  cost  of  two  hundred  pounds. 

His  patron  had  provided  him  with  a  cheque  for  three  hundred. 
Two  had  gone  into  the  pocket  of  M'Tavish ;  the  other  remained 
in  his  own. 

He  had  got  installed  in  his  new  domicile ;  and  seated  with  a 
cigar  between  his  lips — a  real  Havanna — was  reflecting  upon  the 
comforts  that  surrounded  him.  How  different  that  couch,  with 
its  brocaded  cover,  and  soft  cushions,  from  the  hard  horse-hair 
sofa,  with  its  flattened  squab !  How  unlike  these  luxurious  chairs 
to  the-sharp  skeletons  of  cane,  his  wife  had  reason  to  remember  ! 

While  congratulating  himself  on  the  change  of  fortune,  he  was 
also  bethinking  him  of  what  had  led  to  it.  He  had  a  tolerably 
correct  idea  of  why  he  had  been  so  favoured. 

But  for  what  purpose  he  had  been  placed  in  the  villa,  or  the 
duty  there  required  of  him,  he  was  still  ignorant 

He  could  only  conjecture  that  he  had  something  to  do  with 
Kossuth.     Of  this  he  was  almost  certain. 

He  was  not  to  remain  long  in  the  dark  about  his  duties.     At 

»«4 


A  Dress  Rehearsal.  2&$ 


an  interview  on  the  morning  of  that  day,  his  patron  had  promised 
to  send  him  full  instructions — by  a  gentleman  who  should  "  come 
up  in  the  course  of  the  evening." 

Swinton  was  shrewd  enough  to  have  a  thought  as  to  who  this 
gentleman  would  be ;  and  it  inspired  him  to  a  conversation  with 
bis  wife,  of  a  nature  peculiar  as  confidential. 

"  Fan  !  "  he  said,  taking  the  cigar  from  his  teeth,  and  turning 
towards  the  couch,  on  which  that  amiable  creature  was  reclining. 

"  Well ;  what  is  it  ?  *  responded  she,  also  removing  a  weed 
from  between  her  pretty  lips,  and  pouting  the  smoke  after  it. 

"  How  do  you  like  our  new  lodgings,  love  ?  Better  than  those 
at  Westbourne  ?  " 

"  You  don't  want  me  to  answer  that  question,  Dick  ?  * 

"  Oh,  no.  Not  if  you  don't  wish.  But  you  needn't  snap  and 
marl  so." 

"  I  am  not  snapping  or  snarling.     It's  silly  of  you  to  say  so." 

"Yes,  everything's  silly  I  say,  or  do  either.  I've  been  very 
silly  within  the  last  three  days.  To  get  into  a  cosy  crib  like  this, 
with  the  rent  paid  twelve  months  in  advance,  and  a  hundred 
pounds  to  keep  the  kitchen  !  More  to  come  if  I  mistake  not. 
Quite  stupid  of  me  to  have  accomplished  all  this  ! " 

Fan  made  no  rejoinder.  Had  her  husband  closely  scanned 
her  countenance  at  that  moment,  he  might  have  seen  upon  it  a 
smile  not  caused  by  any  admiration  of  his  cleverness. 

She  had  her  own  thoughts  as  to  what  and  to  whom  he  was 
indebted  for  the  favourable  turn  in  bis  fortunes. 

"  Yes ;  much  more  to  come,"  said  he,  continuing  the  hopeful 
prognostic.  "  In  fact,  Fan,  our  fortune's  made,  or  will  be  if  vou 
only  do " 

"  Do  what  ?  "  she  asked,  seeing  that  he  hesitated.  "  What  do 
you  want  me  to  do  next  ?  " 

"Well,  in  the  first  place,"  drawled  he,  showing  displeasure  at 
her  tone,  "  get  up  and  dress  yourself.  I'll  tell  you  what  I  want 
afterwards." 

"Dress  myself!  There's  not  much  chance  of  that,  with  such 
rags  as  are  left  me ! " 

"  Never  mind  the  rags.  We  can't  help  it  just  now.  Besides, 
love,  you  look  well  enough  in  anything." 


266  The  Quid  Wife. 


Fan  tossed  her  head,  as  if  she  cared  little  for  the  compliment 

"  Arrange  the  rags,  as  you  call  'em,  best  way  you  can  for  to- 
night To-morrow,  it  will  be  different  We  shall  take  a  stroll 
among  the  milliners  and  mantua-makers.  Now,  girl,  go ;  do  as  I 
tell  you ! " 

So  encouraged,  she  rose  from  the  couch,  and  turned  towardf 
the  stairway  that  conducted  to  her  sleeping  apartment 

She  commenced  ascending. 

"  Put  on  your  best  looks,  Fan  ! "  said  her  husband,  calling 
after  her.  "  I  expect  a  gentleman,  who's  a  stranger  to  you  ;  and 
I  don't  wish  him  to  think  I've  married  a  slut.  Make  haste,  and 
get  down  again.     He  may  be  in  at  any  moment" 

There  was  no  response  to  show  that  the  rude  speech  had  given 
offence.     Only  a  laugh,  sent  back  from  the  stair-landing. 

Swinton  resumed  his  cigar,  and  sat  waiting. 

He  knew  not  which  would  be  heard  first — a  ring  at  the  gate- 
bell,  or  the  rustling  of  silk  upon  the  stairway. 

He  desired  the  latter,  as  he  had  not  yet  completed  the  promised 
instructions. 

He  had  not  much  more  to  say,  and  a  moment  would  suffice. 

He  was  not  disappointed  :  Fan  came  first  She  came  sweep- 
ing downstairs,  snowy  with  Spanish  chalk,  and  radiant  with  rouge. 

Without  these  she  was  beautiful,  with  them  superb. 

Long  usage  had  made  them  almost  a  necessity  to  her  skin  • 
but  the  same  had  taught  her  skill  in  their  limning.  Only  a  con- 
noisseur could  have  distinguished  the  paint  upon  her  cheeks  from 
the  real  and  natural  colour. 

"You'll  do,"  said  Swinton,  as  he  scanned  her  with  an  approving 
glance. 

"  For,  what,  pray?"  was  the  interrogatory. 

It  was  superfluous.     She  more  than  conjectured  his  meaning. 

■  Sit  down,  and  I'll  tell  you." 

She  sat  down. 

He  did  not  proceed  at  once.  He  seemed  under  some  em- 
barrassment    Even  he — the  brute — was  embarrassed  ! 

And  no  wonder,  with  the  vile  intent  in  his  thoughts — upon  the 
tip  of  his  tongue  ;  for  he  intended  counselling  her  to  shatn4 1 

Not  to  the  ultimate  infamy/but  to  the  seeming  of  it. 


A   Dress  Rehearsal,  267 


Only  the  seeming ;  and  with  the  self-excuse  of  this  limitation, 
he  took  courage,  and  spoke. 

He  spoke  thus  : 

"  Look  here,  Fan.      The  gentleman  I'm  expecting,  is  the  same 

that  has  put  us  into  this  little  snuggery.     It's  Lord :.     I've 

told  you  what  sort  of  a  man  he  is,  and  what  power  he's  got.  He 
can  do  wonders  for  me,  and  will,  if  I  can  manage,  him.  But  he's 
fickle  and  full  of  conceit,  as  all  of  his  kind.  He  requires  skilful 
management ;  and  you  must  assist  me." 

"  I  assist  you  !     In  what  way  ?  >: 

"  I  only  want  you  to  be  civil  to  him.     You  understand  me  ?  " 

Fan  made  no  reply ;  but  her  glance  of  assumed  incredulity  told 
of  a  perfect  comprehension  ! 

The  ringing  of  the  gate-bell  interrupted  the  chapter  of  instrtto 
t£on& 


CHAPTER  LVIL 

PATRON     AND     PROT&jlL 

The  ringing  of  the  bell  did  not  cause  Mr.  Swinton  to  start.  It 
might  have  done  so  had  he  been  longer  in  his  new  residence. 
His  paper  "  kites "  were  still  carried  about  London,  with  judg- 
ments pinned  on  to  them ;  and  he  might  have  supposed  that  the 
bearer  of  one  of  them  was  bringing  it  home  to  him. 

But  the  short  time  he  had  been  installed  in  the  M'Tavish  villa, 
with  the  fact  that  a  visitor  was  expected,  rendered  him  compara- 
tively fearless  ;  and  his  composure  was  only  disturbed  by  a  doubt, 
as  to  whether  the  ringer  of  the  bell  was  his  patron,  or  only  a 
deputy  sent  with  the  promised  instructions. 

The  maid-of-all-work,  that  day  hastily  engaged,  was  despatched 
to  answer  the  ring.  If  it  was  an  elderly  gentleman,  tall  and 
stoutish,  she  was  to  show  him  in  at  once,  and  without  parley. 

On  opening  the  gate,  a  figure  was  distinguished  outside.  It 
was  that  of  a  gentleman.  He  was  enveloped  in  an  ample  cloak, 
with  a  cap  drawn  over  his  ears.  This  did  not  prevent  the  servant 
crom  seeing  that  he  was  tall  and  stoutish ;  while  the  gleam  of  the 
hall  lamp,  falling  on  his  face,  despite  a  dyed  whisker,  showed  him 
to  answer  the  other  condition  for  admittance. 

"  Mr.  Swinton  lives  here  ? "  he  asked,  before  the  gate-opener 
could  give  him  invitation  to  enter. 

"  He  does,  sir.     Please  to  walk  in.* 

Guided  by  the  girl,  the  cloaked  personage  threaded  through 
the  lilacs  and  laurestinas,  stepped  on  to  the  little  piazza,  or 
which  Mr.  M'Tavish  had  oft  smoked  his  pipe ;  and  was  at  length 
shown  into  the  apartment  where  Swinton  awaited  him. 

The  latter  was  alone — his  wife  having  retired  by  instructions. 

On  the  entrance  of  his  visitor,  Mr.  Swinton  started  up  from 
his  seat,  and  advanced  to  receive  him. 

"  My  lord  I "  said  he,  shamming  a  profound  surprise,  "  is  if 
possible  I  axs.  honoured  by  your  presence?" 


Patron  and  Protigt.  269 

*'  No  honour,  sir  ;  no  honour  whatever." 

"  From  what  your  lordship  said,  I  was  expecting  you  to  send 

n 

"  I  have  come  instead,  Mr.  Swinton.  The  instructions  I  have 
to  give  are  upon  a  matter  of  some  importance.  I  think  it  better 
you  should  have  them  direct  from  'myself.'  For  this  reason  I 
present  myself,  as  you  see,  in  propria  persona" 

"  That's  a  lie  ! "  thought  Swinton,  in  reference  to  the  reason. 

Of  course  he  kept  the  thought  to  himself.     His  reply  was : 

"  Just  like  what  is  said  of  your  lordship.  By  night,  as  by  day, 
always  at  work — doing  service  to  the  State.  Your  lordship  will 
pardon  me  for  speaking  so  freely  ?  " 

"  Don't  mention  it,  my  dear  sir.  The  business  between  us 
requires  that  we  both  speak  freely." 

"  Excuse  me  for  not  having  asked  your  lordship  to  take  a 
seat ! " 

"  I'll  take  that,"  promptly  responded  the  condescending  noble- 
man, "  and  a  cigar,  too,  if  you've  got  one  to  spare." 

"  Fortunately  I  have,"  said  the  delighted  Swinton.  "  Here, 
my  lord,  are  some  *  sold  to  me  for  Havanas.  I  can't  answer  for 
their  quality." 

"  Try  one  of  mine  ! " 

The  patron  pulled  a  cigar-case  out  of  the  pocket  of  his  coat 
The  cloak  and  cap  had  been  left  behind  him  in  the  hall. 

The  protege  accepted  it  with  a  profusion  of  thanks. 

Both  sat  down,  and  commenced  smoking. 

Swinton,  thinking  he  had  talked  enough,  waited  for  the  great 
man  to  continue  the  conversation. 

He  did  so. 

u  I  see  you've  succeeded  in  taking  the  house,"  was  the  some- 
what pointless  remark. 

"  I  am  in  it,  my  lord,"  was  the  equally  pointless  reply. 

More  to  the  purpose  was  the  explanation  that  followed : 

"  I  regret  to  inform  your  lordship  that  it  has  cost  a  consider- 
able sum." 

44  How  much?" 

"  I  had  to  take  it  for  a  whole  year — at  a  rent  of  two  hundred 
pounds." 


270  The  Child   Wife. 


"  Pooh  1  never  mind  that.  It's  for  the  service  of  the  State. 
In  such  matters  we  are  obliged  to  make  liberal  disbursement. 
And  now,  my  dear  sir,  let  me  explain  to  you  why  it  has  been 
taken,  and  for  what  purpose  you  have  been  placed  in  it." 

Swinton  settled  down  into  an  attitude  of  obsequious  attention. 

His  patron  proceeded  : 

"  Directly  opposite  lives  a  man,  whose  name  is  already  known 
to  you." 

Without  the  name  being  mentioned,  the  listener  nodded  assent 
He  knew  it  was  Kossuth. 

"  You  will  observe,  ere  long,  that  this  man  has  many  visitors." 

"I  have  noticed  that  already,  rny  lord.  All  day  they  have 
been  coming  and  going." 

"Just  so.  And  among  them  are  men  of  note;  many  who 
have  played  an  important  part  in  the  politics  of  Europe.  Now, 
sir ;  it  is  deemed  convenient,  for  the  cause  of  order,  that  the 
movements  of  these  men  should  be  known ;  and  for  this  it  is 
necessary  that  a  watch  be  kept  upon  them.  From  Sir  Robert 
Cottrell's  recommendation,  we've  chosen  you  for  this  delicate 
duty.     If  I  mistake  not,  sir,  you  will  know  how  to  perform  it?" 

"  My  lord,  I  make  promise  to  do  my  best." 

"  So  much  then  for  the  general  purpose.  And  now  to  enter  a 
little  more  into  details." 

Swinton  resumed  his  listening  attitude. 

"  You  will  make  yourself  acquainted  with  the  personal  appear- 
ance of  all  who  enter  the  opposite  house ;  endeavour  to  ascertain 
who  they  are ;  and  report  on  their  goings  and  comings — taking 
note  of  the  hour.  For  this  purpose  you  will  require  two  assist- 
ants ;  whom  I  authorize  yau  to  engage.  One  of  them  may  appear 
to  act  as  your  servant ;  the  other,  appropriately  dressed,  should. 
visit  you  as  an  intimate  acquaintance.  If  you  could  find  one 
who  has  access  to  the  camp  of  the  enemy,  it  would  be  of  infinite 
importance.  There  are  some  of  these  refugees  in  the  habit  of 
visiting  your  neighbour,  who  may  not  be  altogether  his  friends. 
You  understand  me  ?  " 

"I  do,  your  lordship." 

**  I  see,  Mr.  Swinton,  you  are  the  man  we  want  And  now  for 
•  last  word.     Though  you  are  to  take  note  of  the  movements  of 


Patron  and  Prottgi.  271 

Kossuth's  guests,  still  more  must  you  keep  your  eye  upon  him- 
self. Should  he  go  out,  either  you  or  your  friend  must  follow 
and  find  where  he  goes  to.  Take  a  cab  if  necessary  ;  and  on 
any  such  occasion  report  directly 'and  without  losing  time.  Make 
your  report  to  my  private  secretary  ;  who  will  always  be  found 
at  my  residence  in  Park  Lane.  This  will  be  sufficient  for  the 
present.  When  you  are  in  need  of  funds,  let  my  secretary  know. 
He  has  orders  to  attend  to  the  supply  department.  Any  further 
instructions  I  shall  communicate  to  you  myself.  I  may  have  to 
come  here  frequently;  so  you  had  better  instruct  your  servant 
about  admitting  me." 

"  My  lord,  would  you  accept  of  a  key  ?  Excuse  me  for  asking. 
It  would  save  your  lordship  from  the  disagreeable  necessity  of 
waiting  outside  the  gate,  and  perhaps  being  recognised  by  the 
passers,  or  those  opposite  ?  " 

Without  shoving  it,  Swin  ton's  patron  was  charmed  with  the 
proposal.  The  key  might  in  time  become  useful,  for  other  pur- 
poses than  to  ^cape  recognition  by  either  "  -the  passers  or  those 
opposite."     He  signified  his  consent  to  accept  it. 

"  I  see  ypu  are  clever,  Mr.  Swinton,"  he  said,  with  a  peculiar, 
almost  sardonic  smile.  "As  you  say,  a  key  will  be  convenient 
And  now,  I  need  scarce  point  out  to  you  the  necessity  of  discre- 
tion in  a.ll  that  you  do.  1  perceive  that  your  windows  are  fur- 
nished with  movable  Venetians.  That  is  well,  and  will  be  suitable 
to  your  purpose.  Fortunately  your  own  personal  appearance 
corresponds  very  well  to  such  an  establishment  as  this — a  very 
snug  affair  it  is — and  your  good  lady — ah !  by  the  way,  we  are 
treating  her  very  impolitely.  I  owe  her  an  apology  for  keeping 
you  so  long  away  from  her.  I  hope  you  will  make  it  for  me, 
Mr.  Swinton.  Tell  her  that  I  have  detained  you  on  business  of 
importance." 

"  My  lord,  she  will  not  believe  it,  unless  I  tell  her  whom.  I've 
had  the  honour  of  receiving.     May  I  take  that  liberty  ?  " 

"Oh  !  certainly — certainly.  Were  it  not  for  the  hour,  I  should 
have  asked  you  to  introduce  me.  Of  course,  it  is  too  late  to 
intrude  upon  a  lady." 

"  There's  no  hour  too  late  for  an  introduction  to  your  lordship*. 
I  know  the  poor  child  would  be  delighted." 


273  The  Child  Wife. 


"  Well,  Mr.  Swinton,  if  it's  not  interfering  with  your  domestic 
arrangements,  I,  too,  would  be  delighted.  All  hours  are  alike 
to  me." 

"  My  wife  is  upstairs.     May  I  ask  her  to  come  down  ?  " 

"  Nay,  Mr.  Swinton  ;  may  I  ask  you  to  bring  her  down  ?  ** 

"Such  condescension,  my  lord  !     It  is  a  pleasure  to  obey  you." 

With  this  speech,  half  aside,  Swinton  stepped  out  of  the  room  j 
and  commenced  ascending  the  stairway. 

He  was  not  gone  long.  Fan  was  found  upon  the  first  landing, 
ready  to  receive  the  summons. 

He  returned  almost  too  soon  for  his  sexagenarian  visitor,  who 
had  placed  himself  in  front  of  the  mantel  mirror,  and  was  endea- 
vouring with  dyed  locks  to  conceal  the  bald  spot  upon  hia 
crown ! 

The  introduction  was  followed  by  Mr.  Swinton's  guest  forget- 
ting all  about  the  lateness  of  the  hour,  and  resuming  his  seat. 
Then  succeeded  a  triangular  conversation,  obsequious  on  two 
sides,  slightly  patronizing  on  the  third ;  becoming  less  so,  as 
the  speeches  were  continued;  and  then  there  was  an  invitation 
extended  to  the  noble  guest  to  accept  of  some  refreshment,  on 
the  plea  of  his  long  detention — a  courtesy  he  did  not  decline. 

And  the  Abigail  was  despatched  to  the  nearest  confectionery, 
and  brought  back  sausage  rolls  and  sandwiches,  with  a  Melton 
Mowbray  pie ;  and  these  were  placed  upon  the  table,  alongside 
a  decanter  of  sherry  ;  of  which  his  lordship  partook  with  as  much 
amiable  freedom  as  if  he  had  been  a  jolly  guardsman  1 

And  it  ended  in  his  becoming  still  more  amiable ;  and  talking 
to  Swinton  as  to  an  old  bosom  friend ;  and  squeezing  the  hand 
of  Swinton's  wife,  as  he  stood  in  the  doorway  repeatedly  bidding 
her  "  good-night " — a  bit  of  by-play  that  should  have  made 
Swinton  jealous,  had  the  hall-lamp  been  burning  bright  enough 
for  him  to  see.     He  only  guessed  it,  and  was  not  jealous  ! 

"  She's  a  delicious  creature,  that  I  "  soliloquized  the  titled  roue, 
as  he  proceeded  to  the  Park  Road,  where  a  carriage,  drawn  up 
under  the  shadow  of  the  trees,  had  been  all  the  while  waiting  for 
him.  "  And  a  trump  to  boot !  I  can  tell  that  by  the  touch  of 
her  taper  fingers." 

M  She's  a  trump  and  a  treasure  !  "  was  the  almost  simultaneous 


Patron  and  Protegi.  273 

reflection  of  Swinton,  with  the  same  woman  in  his  thoughts — his 
own  wife  ! 

He  made  it,  after  closing  the  door  upon  his  departing  guest , 
and  then,  as  he  sat  gulping  another  glass  of  sherry,  and  smoking 
another  cigar,  he  repeated  it  with  the  continuation  : 

w  Yes ;  Fan's  the  correct  card  to  play.  What  a  stupid  I've 
been  not  to  think  of  this  before  !  Hang  it !  it's  not  yet  too  late. 
I've  still  got  hold  of  the  hand ;  and  this  night,  if  I'm  not  mis- 
taken, there's  a  game  begun  that'll  give  me  all  I  want  in  this 
world — that's  Julia  Girdwood." 

The  serious  tone  in  which  the  last  three  words  were  spoken 
told  he  had  not  yet  resigned  his  aspirations  after  the  Americaa 
heiress. 


CHAPTER   LVIII. 

IMPROVED     PROSPECTS. 

To  those  who  take  no  note  of  social  distinctions,  Swinton'f 
scheme  in  relation  to  Julia  Girdwood  will  appear  grotesque.  Not 
so  much  on  account  of  its  atrocity,  but  from  the  chances  of  its 
success  seeming  so  problematical. 

Could  he  have  got  the  girl  to  love  him,  it  would  have  changed 
the  aspect  of  affairs.  Love  breaks  down  all  barriers ;  and  to  a 
mind  constituted  as  hers,  no  obstacle  could  have  intervened  — 
not  even  the  idea  of  danger. 

She  did  not  love  him  ;  but  he  did  not  know  it.  A  guardsman, 
and  handsome  to  boot,  he  had  been  accustomed  to  facile  con- 
quests. In  his  own  way  of  thinking,  the  time  had  not  arrived 
when  these  should  be  deemed  difficult. 

He  was  no  longer  in  the  Guards ;  but  he  was  still  young,  and 
he  knew  he  was  still  handsome.  English  dames  thought  him  so. 
Strange  if  a  Yankee  girl  should  have  a  different  opinion  ! 

This  was  the  argument  on  his  side  ;  and,  trusting  to  his  attrac- 
tions, he  still  fanciea  himself  pretty  sure  of  being  able  to  make 
a  conquest  of  the  American — even  to  making  her  the  victim  of 
an  illegal  marriage. 

And  if  he  should  succeed  in  his  bigamous  scheme,  what  then  ? 
What  use  would  she  be  as  a  wife,  unless  her  mother  should  keep 
that  promise  he  had  overheard  :  to  endow  her  with  the  moiety  of 
her  own  life-interest  in  the  estate  of  the  deceased  storekeeper? 

To  marry  Julia  Girdwood  against  her  mother's  wish  would  be 
a  simple  absurdity.  He  did  not  dread  the  danger  that  might 
accrue  from  the  crime.  He  did  not  think  of  it.  But  to  become 
son-in-law  to  a  woman,  whose  daughter  might  remain  penniless 
as  long  as  she  herself  lived,  would  be  a  poor  speculation.  A 
woman,  too,  who  talked  of  living  another  half-century  I 

The  iest  was  not  without  significance :  and  Swinton  thought  no. 


Improved  Prospects.  275 

He  felt  confident  that  he  could  dupe  the  daughter  into  marrying 
him ;  but  to  get  th.it  half-million  out  of  the  mother,  he  must  stand 
before  the  altar  as  a  lord  I 

These  were  Mrs.  Girdwood's  original  conditions.  He  knew  she 
&till  adhered  to  them.  If  fulfilled,  she  would  still  consent;  but 
not  otherwise. 

To  go  on,  then,  the  sham  incognito  must  be  continued — the 
deception  kept  up. 

But  how  ? 

This  was  the  point  that  puzzled  him. 

The  impersonation  had  become  difficult.  In  Newport  and 
New  York  it  had  been  easy  ;  in  Paris  still  easier ;  but  he  was  at 
length  in  London,  where  such  a  cheat  would  be  in  danger  of 
being  detected. 

Moreover,  in  his  last  interview  with  the  ladies,  he  had  been 
sensible  of  some  change  in  their  behaviour  toward  him — an  absence 
of  the  early  congeniality.  It  was  shown  chiefly  by  Mrs.  Gird- 
wood  herself.  Her  warm  friendship  suddenly  conceived  at  New 
port,  continued  in  New  York,  and  afterwards  renewed  in  Paris, 
appeared  to  have  as  suddenly  growm  cool. 

What  could  be  the  cause?  Had  she  heard  anything  to  his 
discredit  ?  Could  she  have  discovered  the  counterfeit  ?  Or  was 
she  only  suspicious  of  it  ? 

Only  the  last  question  troubled  him.  He  did  not  think  he  had 
been  found  out.  He  had  played  his  part  skilfully,  having  given 
no  clue  to  his  concealed  title.  And  he  had  given  good  reasons 
for  his  care  in  concealing  it. 

He  admitted  to  himself  that  she  had  cause  for  be  nig  suspicious. 
She  had  extended  hospitality  to  him  in  America.  Ke.had  no'. 
returned  it  in  Europe,  for  reasons  well-known. 

True,  he  had  only  met  his  American  accuuia'ancss  in  Paris  ? 
but  even  there,  an  English  lord  should  have  shown  himself  more 
liberal ;  and  she  might  have  felt  piqued  xi  hh  parsimony. 

For  similar  reasons  he  had  not  yet  called  upen  them  in  London, 

On  the  contrary,  since  his  return^  he  hud  purposely  kept  out 
of  their  way. 

In  England  he  was  in  his  own  couSry;  and  why  should  he  be 
living  under  an  assumed  name  ?     if  a  lord,  why  under  straiten^ 


276  The  Child   Wife. 


circumstances?     In  Mrs.   Girdwood's  eyes  these  would  be  sus- 
picious circumstances. 

The  last  might  be  explained — by  the  fact  of  their  being  poor 
lords,  though  not  many.  Not  many,  who  do  not  find  the  means 
to  dress  well,  and  dine  sumptuously — to  keep  a  handsome  house, 
if  they  feel  disposed. 

Since  his  return  from  the  States,  Swinton  could  do  none  of 
these  things.  How,  then,  was  he  to  pass  himself  off  for  a  lord — 
even  one  of  the  poorest? 

He  had  almost  despaired  of  being  able  to  continue  the  counter- 
feit; when  the  patronage  of  a  lord,  real  and  powerful,  inspired 
him  with  fresh  hope.  Through  it  his  prospects  had  become 
entirely  changed.  It  had  put  money  in  his  purse,  and  promised 
more.  What  was  equally  encouraging,  he  could  now,  in  real 
truth,  claim  being  employed  in  a  diplomatic  capacity.  True,  it 
was  but  as  a  spy  ;  but  this  is  an  essential  part  of  the  diplomatic 
service ! 

There  was  his  apparent  intimacy  with  a  distinguished  diplomatic 
character — a  nobleman  ;  there  would  be  his  constant  visits  to  the 
grand  mansion  in  Park  Lane— strange  if  with  these  appearances 
in  his  favour  he  could  not  still  contrive  to  throw  dust  in  the  eyes 
of  Dame  Girdwood  ! 

Certainly  his  scheme  was  far  from  hopeless.  By  the  new  ap- 
pointment a  long  vista  of  advantages  had  been  suddenly  disclosed 
to  him ;  and  he  now  set  himself  to  devise  the  best  plan  for  im- 
proving them. 

Fan  was  called  into  his  counsels ;  for  the  wife  was  still  willing. 
Less  than  ever  did  she  care  for  him,  or  what  he  might  do.  She, 
too,  had  become  conscious  of  brighter  prospects ;  and  might  hope, 
at  no  distant  day,  to  appear  once  more  in  Rotten  Row. 

If,  otherwise,  she  had  a  poor  opinion  of  her  husband,  she  did 
not  despise  his  talent  for  intrigue.  There  was  proof  of  it  in  their 
changed  circumstances.  And  though  she  well  knew  the  source 
from  which  their  sudden  prosperity  had  sprung,  she  knew,  also, 
the  advantage,  to  a  woman  of  her  propensities,  in  being  a  wife. 
"  United  we  stand,  divided  we  fall,"  may  have  been  the  thought 
in  her  mind ;  but,  whether  it  was  or  not,  she  was  still  ready  to 
Assist  her  husband  in  accomplishing  a  second  marriage  ! 


Improved  Prospects,  277 

With  the  certificate  of  the  first,  carefully  stowed  away  in  a 
secret  drawer  of  her  dressing-case,  she  had  nothing  to  fear,  beyond 
the  chance  of  a  problematical  exposure. 

She  did  not  fear  this,  so  long  as  there  was  a  prospect  of  that 
iplendid  plunder,  in  which  she  would  be  a  sharer.  Dick  had 
promised  to  be  "true  as  steel,"  and  she  had  reciprocated  the 
promise. 

With  a  box  of  cigars,  and  a  decanter  of  sherry  between  them, 
a  programme  was  traced  out  for  the  further  prosecution  of  the 
scheme. 


CHAPTER  LIX. 

A  DISTINGUISHED    DINNER-PARTY. 

it  was  a  chill  November  night ;  but  there  was  no  coldness  inside 
the  South  Bank  Cottage — the  one  occupied  by  Mr.  Richard 
Swinton. 

There  was  company  in  it. 

There  had  been  a  dinner-party,  of  nine  covers.  The  dinner 
was  eaten ;  and  the  diners  had  returned  to  the  drawing-room. 

The  odd  number  of  nine  precluded  an  exact  pairing  of  the 
sexes.     The  ladies  out-counted  the  gentlemen,  by  five  to  four. 

Four  of  them  are  already  known  to  the  reader.  They  were 
Mrs.  Swinton,  Mrs.  Girdwood,  her  daughter  and  niece.  The  fifth 
was  a  stranger,  not  only  to  the  reader,  but  to  Mrs.  Girdwood  and 
her  girls. 

Three  of  the  gentlemen  were  the  host  himself,  Mr.  Louis  Lucas, 
and  his  friend  Mr.  Spiller.  The  fourth,  like  the  odd  lady,  was  a 
stranger. 

He  did  not  appear  strange  to  Mrs.  Swinton;  who  during  the 
dinner  had  treated  him  with  remarkable  familiarity,  calling  him 
her  "dear  Gustave";  while  he  in  turn  let  the  company  know  she 
was  his  wife  I 

He  spoke  with  a  French  accent,  and  by  Swinton  was  styled 
"  the  count" 

The  strange  lady  appeared  to  know  him — also  in  a  familiar  way. 
She  was  the  Honourable  Miss  Courtney — Geraldine  Courtney. 

With  such  a  high-sounding  name,  she  could  not  look  other 
than  aristocratic. 

She  was  pretty  as  well,  and  accomplished ;  with  just  that  dash 
of  freedom,  in  speech  and  in  manner,  which  distinguishes  the  lady 
of  haut  ton  from  the  wife  or  daughter  of  a  "  tradesman." 

In  Miss  Courtney  it  was  carried  to  a  slight  excess.  So  a  prudish 
person  might  have  thought. 


A  Distinguished  Dinner-party.  279 

But  Mrs.  Girdwood  was  not  prudish— least  of  all,  in  the  pre- 
sence of  such  people.  She  was  delighted  with  the  Honourable 
Geraldine ;  and  wondered  not  at  her  wild  way — only  at  her 
amiable  condescensions  1 

She  was  charmed  also  with  the  count,  and  his  beautiful 
countess. 

His  lordship  had  done  the  correct  thing  at  last — by  introducing 
hei  to  such  company.  Though  still  passing  under  the  assumed 
name  of  Swinton — even  among  his  own  friends — the  invitation 
to  that  dinner-party  disarmed  her  of  suspicion.  The  dinner  itself 
still  more ;  and  she  no  longer  sought  to  penetrate  the  mystery  of 
his  incognito. 

Besides,  he  had  repeated  the  plea  that  hitherto  satisfied  her. 
Still  was  it  diplomacy  ! 

Even  Julia  was  less  distant  with  him.  A  house  handsomely 
furnished ;  a  table  profusely  spread ;  titled  guests  around  it ;  well- 
dressed  servants  in  waiting — all  this  proved  that  Mr.  Swinton 
was  somebody.  And  it  was  only  his  temporary  town  residence, 
taken  for  a  time  and  a  purpose — still  diplomacy.  She  had  not 
yet  seen  his  splendid  place  in  the  countiy,  to  which  he  had  given 
hints  of  an  invitation. 

Proud  republican  as  Julia  Girdwood  was,  she  was  still  but  the 
child  of  a  parvenu. 

And  there  was  something  in  the  surroundings  to  affect  her  fancy. 
She  saw  this  man,  Mr.  Swinton,  whom  she  had  hitherto  treated 
slightingly,  now  in  the  midst  of  his  own  friends,  behaving  hand- 
somely, and  treated  with  respect.  Such  friends,  too  !  all  bearing 
^tles — all  accomplished — two  of  them  beautiful  women,  who 
appeared  not  only  intimate  with,  but  complaisant  toward  him  ! 

Moreover,  no  one  could  fail  to  see  that  he  was  handsome.  He 
had  never  looked  better,  in  her  eyes,  than  on  that  evening.  It 
was  a  situation  not  only  to  stir  curiosity,  but  suggest  thoughts  of 
rivalry. 

And  perhaps  Julia  Girdwood  had  them.  It  was  the  first  tin<e 
fhe  had  figured  in  the  company  of  titled  aristocracy.  It  would 
not  be  strange  if  her  fancy  was  affected  in  such  presence.  Higher 
pride  than  hers  has  succumbed  to  its  influence. 

She  was  not  the  only  one  of  her  party  who  gave  way  to  the 


28o  The  Child  Wife. 


wayward  influences  of  the  hour,  and  the  seductions  of  their 
charming  host.  Mr.  Lucas,  inspired  by  repeated  draughts  of 
sherry  and  champagne,  forgot  his  past  antipathies,  and  of  course 
burned  to  embrace  him.  Mr.  Lucas's  shadow,  Spiller,  was  willing 
to  do  the  same  ! 

Perhaps  the  only  one  of  Mrs.  Girdwood's  set  who  preserved 
independence,  was  the  daughter  of  the  Poughkeepsie  shopkeeper. 
In  her  quiet,  unpretending  way,  Cornelia  shuwed  ■  dignity  fai 
superior  to  that  of  her  own  friends,  or  even  the  grand  people  to 
whom  they  had  been  presented. 

But  even  she  had  no  suspicion  of  the  shams  that  surrounded 
her.  No  more  than  her  aunt  Girdwood  did  she  dream  that  Mr. 
Swinton  was  Mr.  Swinton ;  that  the  countess  was  his  wife ;  that 
the  count  was  an  impostor — like  Swinton  himself,  playing  a  part ; 
and  that  the  Honourable  Geraldine  was  a  lady  of  Mrs.  Swinton's 
acquaintance,  alike  accomplished  and  equally  well-known  in  the 
circles  of  St.  John's  Wood,  under  the  less  aristocratic  cognomen 
of  "Kate  the  coper."  Belonging  to  the  sisterhood  of  "pretty 
horse-brei  kers,"  she  had  earned  this  sobriquet  by  exhibiting 
superior  skill  in  disposing  of  her  cast  steeds  ! 

Utterly  ignorant  of  the  game  that  was  being  played,  as  of  the 
players,  Mrs.  Girdwood  spent  the  evening  in  a  state  approaching 
to  supreme  delight.  Mr.  Swinton,  ever  by  her  side,  took  the 
utmost  pains  to  cancel  the  debt  of  hospitality  long  due;  and  he 
succeeded  in  cancelling  it. 

If  she  could  have  had  any  suspicion  of  his  dishonesty,  it  would 
have  been  dispelled  by  an  incident  that  occurred  during  the 
course  of  the  evening. 

As  it  was  an  episode  interrupting  the  entertainment,  we  shall 
be  excused  for  describing  it. 

The  guests  in  the  drawing-room  were  taking  tea  and  coffee, 
can  ied  round  to  them  by  the  servants— a  staff  hired  from  a 
fashionable  confectionery — when  the  gate-bell  jingled  under  the 
touch  of  a  hand  that  appeared  used  to  the  pulling  of  it. 

M I  can  tell  that  ring,"  said  Swinton,  speaking  loud  enough  for 
nis  guests  to  hear  him.     "  I'll  lay  a  wager  it's  Lord ." 

«  Lord !  M 

The  name  was  that  of  a  distinguished  nobleman — more  di* 


A  Distinguished  Dinner-party*  281 

tinguished  still  as  a  great  statesman  !  Swinton's  proclaiming  it 
caused  his  company  a  thrill — the  strangers  looking  incredulous. 

They  had  scarce  time  to  question  him  before  a  servant,  entering 
the  room,  communicated  something  in  a  whisper. 

"  His  lordship  is  it?"  said  the  master,  in  a  muttered  tone,  just 
loud  enough  to  reach  the  ear  of  Mrs.  Girdwood.  "  Show  him 
into  the  front  parlour.  Say  I  shall  be  down  in  a  second.  Ladies 
and  gentlemen  !  "  he  continued,  turning  to  his  guests,  "  will  yaw 
excuse  me  faw  one  moment — only  a  moment?  I  have  a  visitor 
who  cannot  well  be  denied/' 

They  excused  him,  of  course ;  and  for  a  time  he  was  gone  out 
of  the  room. 

And  of  course  his  guests  were  curious  to  know  who  "was  the 
visitor,  who  "could  not  well  be  donied." 

On  his  return  they  questioned  him ;  the  "  countess,"  with  an 
imperative  earnestness  that  called  for  an  answer. 

"  Well,  ladies  and  gentlemen,"  said  their  amiable  entertainer, 
"  if  yaw  insist  upon  knowing  who  has  been  making  this  vewry 
ill-timed  call  upon  me,  I  suppose  I  must  satisfy  yaw  kewyosity. 

I  was  wight  in  my  conjectyaw.     It  was  Lord .    His  lawdship 

simply  dwopped  in  upon  a  matter  of  diplomatic  business." 

"  Oh  !  it  was  Lord ! "  exclaimed  the  Honourable  Geraldine. 

"  Why  didn't  you  ask  him  in  here  ?  He's  a  dear  old  fellow,  as 
I  know ;  and  I'm  sure  he  would  have  come.  Mr.  Swinton !  I'm 
very  angry  with  you  ! "     * 

"'Pon  honaw  !  Miss  Courtney,  I'm  vewy  sorry;  I  didn't  think 
d  it,  else  I  should  have  been  most  happy." 

"  He's  gone,  I  suppose  ?  " 

11  Aw,  yas.  He  went  away  as  soon  as  he  undawstood  1  had 
company." 

And  this  was  true — all  true.  The  nobleman  in  question  had 
really  been  in  the  front  parlour,  and  had  gone  off  on  learning 
what  was  passing  upstairs  in  the  drawing-room. 

He  had  parted,  too,  with  a  feeling  of  disappointment,  almost 
chagrin  ;  though  it  was  not  diplomatic  business  to  which  the  villa 
was  indebted  for  his  visit. 

However  fruitless  his  calling  had  proved  to  him,  it  was  not  with- 
out advantage  to  Mr.  Swinton. 


282  The  Child  Wife. 


"  The  man  who  receives  midnight  visits  from  a  lord,  and  that 
^ord  a  distinguished  statesman,  must  either  be  a  lord  himself,  or 
a  somebody  I " 

This  was  said  in  soliloquy  by  the  retail  storekeeper's  widow,  as 
that  night  she  stretched  herself  upon  one  of  the  luxurious  couches 
of  the  "  Clarendon." 

About  the  same  time,  her  daughter  gave  way  to  ft  somewhat 
aimilar  reflection. 


CHAPTER  LX. 

A   PARTING   PRESENT. 

At  parting,  there  had  been  no  "  scene  "  between  Sir  Georg 2 
Vernon  and  his  seemingly  ungrateful  guest. 

Nor  was  the  interview  a  stormy  one,  as  they  stood  face  to  face 
under  the  shadow  of  the  deodara. 

Sir  George's  daughter  had  retired  from  the  spot,  her  young  heart 
throbbing  with  pain  ;  while  Maynard,  deeply  humiliated,  made  no 
attempt  to  justify  himself. 

Had  there  been  light  under  the  tree,  Sir  George  would  have 
seen  before  him  the  face  of  a  man  that  expressed  the  very  type  of 
submission. 

For  some  seconds,  there  was  a  profound  and  painful  silence. 

It  was  broken  by  the  baronet: 

"  After  this,  sir,  I  presume  it  is  not  necessary  for  me  to  point 
out  the  course  you  should  pursue?    There  is  only  one." 

"  I  am  aware  of  it,  Sir  George." 

"  Nor  is  it  necessary  to  say,  that  I  wish  to  avoid  scandal  ?  " 

Maynard  made  no  reply ;  though,  unseen,  he  nodded  assent  to 
the  proposition. 

"  You  can  retire  at  your  leisure,  sir ;  but  in  ten  minutes  my 
carriage  will  be  ready  to  take  you  and  your  luggage  to  the 
station." 

It  was  terrible  to  be  thus  talked  to ;  and  but  for  the  scandal 
Sir  George  had  alluded  to,  Maynard  would  have  replied  :o  it  by 
refusing  the  proffered  service. 

But  he  felt  himself  in  a  dilemma.  The  railway  station  was  full 
four  miles  distant. 

A  fly  might  be  had  there  ;  but  not  without  some  one  going  to 
fetch  it.  For  this  he  must  be  indebted  to  his  host.  He  was  in  a 
dress  suit,  and  could  not  well  walk,  without  courting  the  notice  to 
be  shunned.  Besides,  there  would  be  his  luggage  to  come  after 
him. 

*3 


284  The  Child  Wife. 


There  was  no  alternative,  but  to  accept  the  obligation. 

He  did  so,  by  saying — 

"  In  ten  minutes,  Sir  George,  I  shall  be  ready.  I  make  no 
apology  for  what  has  passed.  I  only  hope  the  time  may  come, 
when  you  will  look  less  severely  on  my  conduct." 

"  Not  likely,"  was  the  dry  response  of  the  baronet,  and  with 
these  words  the  two  parted  :  Sir  George  going  back  to  his  guests 
in  the  drawing-room,  Maynard  making  his  way  to  the  apartment 
that  contained  his  impeditnenta. 

The  packing  of  his  portmanteau  did  not  occupy  him  half  the 
ten  minutes'  time.  There  was  no  need  to  change  his  dancing-dres3. 
His  surtout  would  sufficiently  conceal  it. 

The  bell  brought  a  male  domestic ;  who,  shouldering  the  "  trap," 
carried  it  downstairs — though  not  without  wondering  why  the  gent 
should  be  taking  his  departure,  at  that  absurd  hour,  just  as  the 
enjoyment  in  the  drawing-room  had  reached  its  height,  and  a 
splendid  supper  was  being  spread  upon  the  tables ! 

Maynard  having  given  a  last  look  around  the  room,  to  assure 
himself  that  nothing  had  been  overlooked,  was  about  preparing  to 
follow  the  bearer  of  his  portmanteau,  when  another  attach  of  the 
establishment  barred  his  passage  on  the  landing  of  the  stair. 

It  was  also  a  domestic,  but  of  different  kind,  sex,  and  colour. 

It  was  Sabina,  of  Badian  birth. 

"  Hush !  Mass  Maynard,"  she  said,  placing  her  finger  on  her 
lips  to  impress  the  necessity  of  silence.  "  Doan  you  'peak  above 
de  brerT,  an*  I  tell  you  someting  dat  you  like  hear." 

11  What  is  it  ?  "  Maynard  asked,  mechanically. 

"  Dat  Missy  Blanche  lub  you  dearly — wit  all  de  lub  ob  her 
young  heart.  She  Sabby  tell  so— yesserday — dis  day — more'n  a 
dozen  times,  oba  an'  oba.    So  dar  am  no  need  you  go  into  despair." 

"  Is  that  all  you  have  to  say  ?  "  asked  he,  though  without  any 
asperity  of  tone. 

It  would  have  been  strange  if  such  talk  had  not  given  him 
pleasure,  despite  the  little  information  conveyed  by  it 

"All  Sabby  hab  say ;  but  not  all  she  got  do." 

"  What  have  you  to  do  ?  "  demanded  Maynard,  in  an  anxious 
undertone. 

"You  gib  -Jis,"  was  the  reply  of  the  mulatto,  as,  with  the  adroit* 


A  Parting  Present.  285 

ness  peculiar  to  her  race  and  sex,  she  slipped  something  white  into 
the  pocket  of  his  surtout. 

Tiie  carriage  wheels  were  heard  outside  the  hall-door,  gritting 
upon  the  gravel. 

Without  danger  of  being  observed,  the  departing  guest  could 
not  stay  in  such  company  any  longer  ;  and  passing'a  half-sovereign 
into  Sabby's  hand,  he  silently  descended  the  stair,  and  as  silently 
took  seat  in  the  carriage. 

The  bearer  of  the  portmanteau,  as  he  shut  to  the  carriage  door, 
could  not  help  still  wondering  at  such  an  ill-timed  departure. 

"  Not  a  bad  sort  of  gent,  anyhow,"  was  his  reflection,  as  he 
turned  back  under  the  hail-lamp  to  examine  the  half-sovereign  that 
had  been  slipped  into  his  palm. 

And  while  he  was  doing  this,  the  gent  in  question  was  engaged 
in  a  far  more  interesting  scrutiny.  Long  before  the  carriage  had 
passed  out  of  the  park — even  while  it  was  yet  winding  round  the 
"  sweep  " — its  occupant  had  plunged  his  hand  into  the  pocket  of 
his  surtout  and  drawn  out  the  paper  that  had  been  there  so  sur- 
reptitiously deposited. 

It  was  but  a  tiny  slip — a  half-sheet  torn  from  its  crested  counter- 
foil. And  the  writing  upon  it  was  in  pencil ;  only  a  few  words,  as 
if  scrawled  in  trembling  haste  ! 

The  light  of  the  wax-candles,  reflected  from  the  silvered  lamps, 
rendered  the  reading  easy ;  and  with  a  heart  surcharged  with 
supreme  joy,  he  read : — 

"  Papa  is  very  angry ;  an^  I  know  he  will  never  sanction  my 
seeing  you  again.  I  am  sad  to  think  we  may  meet  no  more  j 
*nd  that  you  will  forget  me.     I  shall  never  forget  you — never  I " 

"  Nor  I  you,  Blanche  Vernon,"  was  the  reflection  of  Maym.rd. 
as  he  refolded  the  slip  of  paper,  and  thrust  it  back  into  the  pocket 
of  his  coat 

He  took  it  out,  and  re-read  it  before  reaching  the  railway 
station ;  and  once  again,  by  the  light  of  a  suspended  lamp,  as  he 
sat  solitary  in  a  carriage  of  the  night  mail  train,  up  for  the  metro 
polis. 

Then  folding  it  more  carefully,  he  slipped  it  into  his  card-case, 
to  be  placed  in  a  pocket  nearer  his  heart ;  if  not  the  first,  the 
sweetest  gage  d amour  he  had  ever  received  in  his  life  1 


CHAPTER  LXL 

AN    INFORMER. 

The  disappearance  of  a  dancing  guest  from  the  midst  of  three- 
score others  is  a  thing  not  likely  to  be  noticed.  And  if  noticed, 
needing  no  explanation — in  English  "best  society." 

There  the  defection  may  occur  from  a  quiet  dinner-party — even 
in  a  country-house,  where  arrivals  and  departures  are  more  rare 
than  in  the  grand  routs  of  the  town. 

True  politeness  has  long  since  discarded  that  insufferable  cere- 
mony of  general  leave-taking,  with  its  stiff  bows  and  stiffer  hand- 
shakings. Sufficient  to  salute  your  host — more  particularly  your 
hostess — and  bow  good-bye  to  any  of  the  olive  branches  that  may 
be  met,  as  you  elbow  your  way  out  of  the  drawing-room. 

This  was  the  rule  holding  good  under  the  roof  of  Sir  George 
Vernon  ;  and  the  abrupt  departure  of  Captain  Maynard  would 
have  escaped  comment,  but  for  one  or  two  circumstances  of  a 
peculiar  nature. 

He  was  a  stranger  to  Sir  George's  company,  with  romantic,  if 
not  mysterious,  antecedents  ;  while  his  literary  laurels  freshly 
gained,  and  still  green  upon  his  brow,  had  attracted  attention  even 
in  that  high  circle. 

But  what  was  deemed  undoubtedly  peculiar  was  the  mode  in 
which  he  had  made  his  departure.  He  had  been  seen  dancing 
with  Sir  George's  daughter,  and  afterward  stepping  outside  with 
her — through  the  conservatory,  and  into  the  grounds.  He  had 
not  again  returned. 

Some  of  the  dancers  who  chanced  to  be  cooling  themselves  by 
the  bottom  of  the  stair,  had  seen  his  portmanteau  taken  out,  him- 
self following  shortly  after  ;  while  the  sound  of  carriage  wheels 
upon  the  sweep  told  of  his  having  gone  off  for  good  ! 

There  was  not  much  in  all  this.  He  had  probably  taken  Leave 
of  his  host  outside — in  a  correct  ceremonial  manner. 


An  Informer.  zSy 


But  no  one  had  seen  him  do  so ;  and,  as  he  had  been  for  some 
time  staying  at  the  house,  the  departure  looked  somewhat  brusque. 
For  certain  it  was  strangely  timed. 

Still  it  might  not  have  been  remarked  upon,  but  for  another 
circumstance :  that,  after  he  was  gone,  the  baronet's  daughter 
appeared  no  more  among  the  dancers. 

She  had  not  been  seen  since  she  had  stood  up  in  the  valse 
where  she  and  her  partner  had  been  so  closely  scrutinized  ! 

She  was  but  a  young  thing.  The  spin  may  have  affected  her  to 
giddiness ;  and  she  had  retired  to  rest  awhile. 

This  was  the  reasoning  of  those  who  chanced  to  think  of  it 

They  were  not  many.  The  charmers  in  wide  skirts  had  enough 
to  do  thinking  of  themselves ;  the  dowagers  had  betaken  them- 
selves to  quiet  whist  in  the  antechambers  :  and  the  absence  of 
Blanche  Vernon  brought  no  blight  upon  the  general  enjoyment. 

But  the  absence  of  her  father  did — that  is,  his  absence  of  mind. 
During  the  rest  of  the  evening  there  was  a  strangeness  in  Sir 
George's  manner  noticed  by  many  of  his  guests ;  an  abstraction, 
palpably,  almost  painfully  observable.  Even  his  good  breeding 
was  not  proof  against  the  blow  he  had  sustained  ! 

Despite  his  efforts  to  conceal  it,  his  more  intimate  acquaintances 
could  see  that  something  had  gone  astray. 

Its  effect  was  to  put  a  damper  on  the  night's  hilarity ;  and  per- 
haps earlier  than  would  have  otherwise  happened  were  the  im- 
patient coachmen  outside  released  from  their  chill  waiting  upon 
the  sweep. 

And  earlier,  also,  did  the  guests  staying  at  the  house  retire  to 
their  separate  sleeping  apartments. 

Sir  George  did  not  go  direct  to  his  ;  but  first  to  his  library. 

He  went  not  alone.     Frank  Scudamore  accompanied  him. 

He  did  so,  at  the  request  of  his  uncle,  after  the  others  had  said 
good-night. 

The  object  of  this  late  interview  between  Sir  George  and  his 
nephew  is  made  known,  by  the  conversation  that  occurred  be- 
tween them. 

"  Frank,"  began  the  baronet,  "  I  desire  you  to  be  frank  with  me.* 

Sir  George  said  this,  without  intending  a  pun.  He  was  in  no 
mood  for  playing  upon  words. 


288  TJie  Child   Wife. 


"  About  what,  uncle  ?  "  asked  Scudamore,  looking  a  little  sur- 
prised. 

"About  all  you've  seen    between    Blanche    and   this 

fellow." 

The  "  fellow  M  was  pronounced  with  contemptuous  emphasis — 
almost  in  a  hiss. 

"All  I've  seen?" 

"  All  you've  seen,  and  all  you've  heard." 

"  What  I've  seen  and  heard  I  have  told  you.  That  is,  up  to 
this  night — up  to  an  hour  ago." 

"  An  hour  ago  I     Do  you  mean  what  occurred  under  the  tree?" 

"No  uncle,  not  that.     I've  seen  something  since." 

"  Since  !     Captain  Maynard  went  immediately  away  ! " 

"  He  did.  But  not  without  taking  a  certain  thing  along  with 
him  he  ought  not  to  have  taken." 

"  Taken  a  certain  thing  along  with  him  1  What  do  you  mean, 
nephew  ?  " 

"That  your  honoured  guest  carried  out  of  your  house  a  piece 
of  paper  upon  which  something  had  been  written." 

"By  whom?" 

"  By  my  cousin  Blanche." 

"  When,  and  where  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  suppose  while  he  was  getting  ready  to  go ;  and  as  to 
the  where,  I  presume  it  was  done  by  Blanche  in  her  bedroom. 
She  went  there  after— what  you  saw." 

Sir  George  listened  to  this  information  with  as  much  coolness 
as  he  could  command.  Still,  there  was  a  twitching  of  the  facial 
muscles,  and  a  pallor  overspreading  his  cheeks,  his  nephew  could 
not  fail  to  notice. 

'    "  Proceed,  Frank  1 "  he  said,  in  a  faltering  voice,  "  go  on,  and 
tell  me  all.     How  did  you  become  acquainted  with  this  ?  " 

"  By  the  merest  accident,"  pursued  the  willing  informant  "  I 
was  outside  the  drawing-room,  resting  between  two  dances.  It 
was  just  at  the  time  Captain  Maynard  wae  going  off.  From 
where  I  was  standing,  I  could  see  up  the  stairway  to  the  top 
landing.  He  was  there  talking  to  Sabina,  and  as  it  appeared  to 
me,  in  a  very  confidential  manner.  I  saw  him  slip  something 
into  her  hand — a  piece  of  money,  I  suppose — just  after  she  had 


An  Informer.  289 


dropped  something  white  into  the  pocket  of  his  overcoat.  I 
could  tell  it  was  paper — folded  in  the  shape  of  a  note." 

"  Are  you  sure  it  was  that  ?  " 

"Quite  sure,  uncle.  I  had  no  doubt  of  it  at  the  time;  and 
said  to  myself,  'It's  a  note  that's  been  written  by  my  cousin,  who 
has  sent  Sabina  to  give  it  to  him.'  I'd  have  stopped  him  on  the 
stair  and  made  him  give  it  up  again,  but  for  raising  a  row  in  the 
house.     You  know  that  would  never  have  done." 

Sir  George  did  not  hear  the  boasting  remark.  He  was  not 
listening  to  it.  His  soul  was  too  painfully  absorbed— reflecting 
upon  this  strange  doing  of  his  daughter. 

"  Poor  child  !  "  muttered  he  in  sad  soliloquy.  "  Poor  innocent 
child  !  And  this,  after  all  my  care,  my  ever-zealous  guardianship, 
my  far  more  than  ordinary  solicitude.  Oh  God !  to  think  I've 
taken  a  serpent  into  my  house,  who  should  thus  turn  and  sting 


me!" 

The    baronet's    feelings    forbade   farther   conversation  j 
Scud&more  was  dismissed  to  his  bed. 


sad 


CHAPTER  LXII. 

UNSOCIABLE   FELLOW-TRAVELLERS. 

Th*  train  by  which  Maynard  travelled  made  stop  at  the 
Sydenham  Station,  to  connect  with  the  Crystal  Palace. 

The  stoppage  failed  to  arouse  him  from  the  reverie  into  which 
f  3  had  fallen — painful  after  what  had  passed. 

He  was  only  made  aware  of  it  on  hearing  voices  outside  the 
carriage,  and  only  because  some  of  these  seemed  familiar. 

On  looking  out,  he  saw  upon  the  platform  a  party  of  ladies  and 
gentlemen. 

The  place  would  account  for  their  being  there  at  so  late  an 
hour — excursionists  to  the  Crystal  Palace — but  still  more,  a  cer- 
tain volubility  of  speech,  suggesting  the  idea  of  their  having  dined 
at  the  Sydenham  Hotel. 

They  were  moving  along  the  platform,  in  search  of  a  first-class 
carriage  for  London. 

As  there  were  six  of  them,  an  empty  one  would  be  required — 
the  London  and  Brighton  line  being  narrow  gauge. 

There  was  no  such  carriage,  and  therefore  no  chance  of  them 
getting  seated  together.     The  dining  party  would  have  to  divide. 

"What  a  baw ! "  exclaimed  the  gentleman  who  appeared  to  act 
as  the  leader,  "  a  dooced  baw  I  But  I  suppose  there's  no  help 
for  it.     Aw — heaw  is  a  cawage  with  only  one  in  it ! " 

The  speaker  had  arrived  in  front  of  that  in  which  Maynard 
sate — so/us,  and  in  a  corner. 

"  Seats  for  five  of  us,"  pursued  he.  "  We'd  better  take  this, 
ladies.     One  of  us  fellaws  must  stow  elsewhere." 

The  ladies  assenting,  he  opened  the  door,  and  stood  holding 
the  handle. 

The  three  ladies — there  were  three  of  them — entered  first 

It  became  a  question  which  of  the  three  "  fellaws  "  was  to  be 
separated  from  such  pleasant  travelling-companions — two  of  them 
being  young  and  pretty. 


Unsociable  Fellow- Travellers.  291 

"  I'll  go,"  volunteered  he  who  appeared  the  youngest  and  least 
consequential  of  the  trio. 

The  proposal  was  eagerly  accepted  by  the  other  two — especially 
him  who  held  the  handle  of  the  door. 

By  courtesy  he  was  the  last  to  take  a  seat.     He  had  entered 
the  carriage,  and  was  about  doing  so ;  when  all  at  once  a  thought,  ■ 
or  something  else,  seemed  to  strike  him — causing  him  to  change  » 
his  design. 

"  Aw,  ladies ! "  he  said,  "  I  hope  yaw  will  pardon  me  for 
leaving  yaw  to  go  into  the  smoking  cawage.  I'm  dying  for  a 
cigaw." 

Perhaps  the  ladies  would  have  said,  "Smoke  where  you  are" j 
but  there  was  a  stranger  to  be  consulted,  and  they  only  said : 

"Oh,  certainly,  sir." 

If  any  of  them  intended  an  additional  observation,  before  it 
could  have  been  made  he  was  gone. 

He  had  shot  suddenly  out  upon  the  platform,  as  if  something 
else  than  smoking  was  in  his  mind  ! 

They  thought  it  strange— even  a  little  impolite. 

"  Mr.  Swinton's  an  inveterate  smoker,"  said  the  oldest  of  the 
three  ladies,  by  way  of  apologising  for  him. 

The  remark  was  addressed  to  the  gentleman,  who  had  now 
sole  charge  of  them. 

"Yes;  I  see  he  is,"  replied  the  latter,  in  a  tone  that  sounded 
slightly  ironical. 

He  had  been  scanning  the  solitary  passenger,  in  cap  and 
surtout,  who  sate  silent  in  the  corner. 

Despite  the  dim  light,  he  had  recognised  him ;  and  felt  sure 
that  Swinton  had  done  the  same. 

His  glance  guided  that  of  the  ladies ;  all  of  whom  had  previous 
acquaintance  with  their  fellow-passenger.  One  of  the  three 
started  on  discovering  who  it  was. 

For  all  this  there  was  no  speech — not  even  a  nod  of  recog 
nition.  Only  a  movement  of  surprise,  followed  by  embarrass- 
ment. 

Luckily  the  lamp  was  of  oil,  making  it  difficult  to  lead  the 
expression  on  their  faces. 

So  thought  Julia  Gird  wood ;  and  so  too  her  mothei, 


292  The  Child  Wife. 


Cornelia  cared  not.     She  had  no  shame  to  conceal. 

But  Louis  Lucas  liked  the  obscurity;  for  it  was  he  who  was  in 
charge. 

He  had  dropped  down  upon  the  seat,  opposite  to  the  gentle- 
man who  had  shot  his  Newfoundland  dog! 

it  was  not  a  pleasant  place;  and  he  instantly  changed  to  the 
stall  that  should  have  been  occupied  by  Mr.  Swinton. 

He  did  this  upon  pretence  of  sitting  nearer  to  Mrs.  Girdwood. 

And  thus  Maynard  was  left  without  a  vis-d-vis. 

His  thoughts  also  were  strange.  How  could  they  be  other- 
wipe?  Beside  him,  with  shoulders  almost  touching,  sate  the 
woman  he  had  once  loved ;  or,  at  all  events,  passionately 
admired. 

It  was  the  passion  of  a  day.  It  had  passed ;  and  was  now  cold 
and  dead.  There  was  a  time  when  the  touch  of  that  rounded 
arm  would  have  sent  the  blood  in  hot  current  through  his  veins. 
Now  its  chafing  against  his,  as  they  came  together  on  the  cushion, 
produced  no  more  feeling  than  if  it  had  been  a  fragment  from  the 
chisel  of  Praxiteles ! 

Did  she  feel  the  same  ? 

He  could  not  tell ;  nor  cared  he  to  know. 

If  he  had  a  thought  about  her  thoughts,  it  was  one  of  simple 
gratitude.  He  remembered  his  own  imaginings,  as  to  who  had 
sent  the  star  flag  to  protect  him,  confirmed  by  what  Blanche 
Vernon  had  let  drop  in  that  conversation  in  the  covers. 

And  this  alone  influenced  him  to  shape,  in  his  own  mind,  the 
question,  "Should  I  speak  to  her?" 

His  tli oughts  charged  back  to  all  that  had  passed  between 
the;n — to  her  cold  parting  on  the  cliff  where  he  had  rescued  her 
from  drowning ;  to  her  almost  disdainful  dismissal  of  him  in  the 
Newport  ball-room.  But  he  remembered  also  her  last  speech  as 
she  passed  him,  going  out  at  the  ball-room  door;  and  her  last 
glance  given  hum  from  the  balcony ! 

Both  wokIs  and  look,  once  more  rising  into  recollection,  caused 
him  to  repeat  the  mental  interrogatory,  "Should  I  speak  to 
her?" 

Ten  times  there  was  a  speech  upon  his  tongue ;  and  as  often 
was  it  restrained 


Unsociable  Fellow-Travellers,  293 

There  was  time  for  that  and  more ;  enough  to  have  admitted 
of  an  extended  dialogue.  Though  the  mail  train,  making  forty 
miles  an  hour,  should  reach  London  Bridge  in  fifteen  minutes,  it 
seemed  as  though  it  would  never  arrive  at  the  station ! 

It  did  so  at  length  without  a  word  having  been  exchanged 
between  Captain  Maynard  and  any  of  his  quo?idam  acquaintances ! 

They  all  seemed  relieved,  as  the  platform  appearing  alongside 
gave  them  a  chance  of  escaping  from  his  company  ! 

Julia  may  have  been  an  exception.  She  was  the  last  of  her 
party  to  get  out  of  the  carriage,  Maynard  on  the  off  side,  of 
course,  still  staying. 

She  appeared  to  linger,  as  with  a  hope  of  still  being  spoken  to. 

It  was  upon  her  tongue  to  say  the  word  "  cruel " ;  but  a  proud 
thought  restrained  her;  and  she  sprang  quickly  out  of  the  carriage 
to  spare  herself  the  humiliation  ! 

Equally  near  speaking  was  Maynard.  He  too  was  restrained 
by  a  thought — proud,  but  not  cruel. 


He  looked  along  the  platform,  and  watched  them  as  they 
moved  away.  He  saw  them  joined  by  two  gentlemen— one  who 
approached  stealthily,  as  if  not  wishing  to  be  seen. 

He  knew  that  the  skulker  was  Swinton ;  and  why  he  desired  to 
avoid  observation. 

Maynard  no  more  cared  for  the  movements  of  this  man — no 
more  envied  him  either  their  confidence  or  company.  His  only 
reflection  was : 

"  Strange  that  in  every  unpleasant  passage  of  my  life  this  same 
party  should  trump  up — at  Newport;  in  Paris;  and  now  near 
London,  in  the  midst  of  a  grief  greater  than  all ! " 

And  he  continued  to  reflect  upon  this  coincidence,  till  the  rail- 
way porter  had  pushed  him  and  his  portmanteau  into  the  interior 
of  a  cab. 

The  official  not  understanding  the  cause  of  his  abstraction, 
gave  him  no  credit  for  it. 

By  the  sharp  slamming  of  the  hack-door  he  was  reminded  of  a 
remissness :  he  had  neglected  the  doucmr  i 


CHAPTER   LXIII. 

"IT   IS   SWEET— SO    SWEET." 

Transported  in  his  cab,  Captain  Maynard  was  set  down  safely 
at  his  lodgings  in  the  proximity  of  Portman  Square. 

A  latch-key  let  him  in,  without  causing  disturbance  to  his 
landlady. 

Though  once  more  in  his  own  rooms,  with  a  couch  that  seemed 
to  invite  him  to  slumber,  he  could  not  sleep.  All  night  long  he 
lay  tossing  upon  it,  thinking  of  Blanche  Vernon. 

The  distraction,  caused  by  his  encounter  with  Julia  Girdwood, 
had  lasted  no  longer  than  while  this  lady  was  by  his  side  in  the 
railway  carriage. 

At  the  moment  of  her  disappearance  from  the  platform,  back 
into  his  thoughts  came  the  baronet's  daughter— back  before  his 
mental  vision  the  remembrance  of  her  roseate  cheeks  and  golden 
hair. 

The  contretemps  had  been  disagreeable — a  thing  to  be  regretted. 
Yet,  thinking  over  it,  he  was  not  wretched ;  scarce  unhappy. 
How  could  he  be,  with  those  tender  speeches  still  echoing  in  his 
ears — that  piece  of  paper  in  his  possession,  which  once  again  he 
had  taken  out,  and  read  under  the  light  of  his  own  lamp  ? 

It  was  painful  to  think  "  papa  would  never  sanction  her  seeing 
him  again."     But  this  did  not  hinder  him  from  having  a  hope. 

It  was  no  more  the  mediaeval  time ;  nor  is  England  the  country 
of  cloisters,  where  love,  conscious  of  being  returned,  lays  much 
stress  on  the  parental  sanction.  Still  might  such  authority  be  an 
obstruction,  not  to  be  thought  lightly  of;  nor  did  Maynard  so 
think  of  it 

Between  the  proud  baronet  and  himself,  he  had  placed  a 
barrier  he  might  never  be  able  to  remove — a  social  gulf  that 
would  separate  them  for  ever  I 

Were  there  no  means  of  bridging  it  ?    Could  none  be  devised  ? 


*It  is  Sweet — so  Sweet**  295 

For  long  hours  these  questions  kept  him  awake ;  and  he  went 
to  sleep  without  finding  answer  to  them. 

During  the  same  hours  was  she,  too,  lying  awake — thinking  in 
the  same  way. 

She  had  other  thoughts,  and  among  them  fears.  She  had  yet 
to  face  her  father ! 

Returning,  as  she  had  done  to  her  own  room,  she  had  not  seen 
him  since  the  hour  of  her  shame. 

But  there  was  a  morrow  when  she  would  have  to  meet  him — 
perhaps  be  called  upon  for  a  full  confession. 

It  might  seem  as  if  there  was  nothing  more  to  be  told.  But 
the  necessity  of  having  to  comfort  her  father,  and  repeat  what 
was  already  known,  would  of  itself  be  sufficiently  painful. 

Besides,  there  was  her  after-action — in  the  surreptitious  pen- 
ning of  that  little  note.  She  had  done  it  in  haste,  yielding  to 
.he  instinct  of  love,  and  while  its  frenzy  was  upon  her. 

Now  in  the  calm  quiet  of  her  chamber,  when  the  spasmodic 
courage  of  passion  had  departed,  she  felt  doubtful  of  what  she 
had  done. 

It  was  less  repentance  of  the  act,  than  fear  for  the  consequences. 
What  if  her  father  should  also  learn  that  ?  If  he  should  have  a 
suspicion  and  ask  her  ? 

She  knew  she  must  confess.  She  was  as  yet  too  young,  too 
guileless,  to  think  of  subterfuge.  She  had  just  practised  one  ; 
but  it  was  altogether  different  from  the  telling  of  an  untruth.  It 
was  a  falsehood  even  prudery  itself  might  deem  pardonable. 

But  her  father  would  not,  and  she  knew  it.  Angry  at  what  he 
already  knew,  it  would  add  to  his  indignation — perhaps  strengthen 
it  to  a  storm.     How  would  she  withstand  it? 

She  lay  reflecting  in  fear. 

"  Dear  Sabby  !  "  she  said,  "  do  you  think  he  will  suspect  it  ?  * 

The  question  was  to  the  coloured  attendant,  who,  having  a  tiny 
couch  in  the  adjoining  ante-chamber,  sate  up  late  by  her  young 
mistress,  to  converse  with  and  comfort  her. 

"  'Speck  what  ?    And  who  am  to  hab  de  saspicion  ?  * 

"  About  the  note  you  gave  him.     My  father,  I  mean." 

"  You  fadda  !  I  gub  you  fadda  no  note.  You  warvi'in  in  your 
*pear:h,  Missy  Blanche  ! " 


296  The  Child  Wife. 


"  No—  no.     I  mean  what  you  gave  him — the  piece  of  paper  I 

entrusted  you  with." 

"  Oh,  gub  Massa  Maynar  !     Ob  coas  I  gub  it  him." 

"  And  you  think  no  one  saw  you?  " 

"  Don't  'tink  anyting  'bout  it.  Satin  shoo  nobody  see  dat. 
Sabby,  she  drop  de  leetle  billydou  right  into  de  genlum's  pocket 
— de  outside  coat  pocket — wha  it  went  down  slick  out  ob  sight. 
Make  you  mind  easy  'bout  dat,  Missy  Blanche.  'Twan't  possible 
nob'dy  ked  a  seed  de  tramfer.  Dey  must  ha  hab  de  eyes  ob  *n 
Argoos  to  dedect  dat." 

The  over-confidence  with  which  Sabby  spoke  indicated  a  doubt. 

She  had  one ;  for  she  had  noticed  eyes  upon  her,  though  not 
those  of  an  Argus.  They  were  in  the  head  of  Blanche's  own 
cousin,  Scudamore. 

The  Creole  suspected  that  he  had  seen  her  deliver  the  note, 
but  took  care  to  keep  her  suspicions  to  herself. 

"  No,  missy,  dear,"  she  continued.  "  Doan  trouble  you  head 
'bout  dat  'ere.  Sabby  gub  de  note  all  right.  Darfore  why  shed 
you  fadda  hab  'spicion  'bout  it?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  answered  the  young  girl.  "  And  yet  I  cannot 
help  having  fear." 

She  lay  for  a  while  silent,  as  if  reflecting.  It  was  not  altogether 
on  her  fears. 

11  What  did  he  say  to  you,  Sabby  ?  *  she  asked  at  length. 

"  You  mean  Massa  Maynar  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"He  no  say  much.     Da  wan't  no  time,** 

"  Did  he  say  anything  ?  " 

u  Wa,  yes,"  drawled  the  Creole,  nonplussed  for  an  answer — 
"yes  :  he  say,  *  Sabby — you  good  Sabby;  you  tell  Missy  Blanche 
dat  no  matter  what  turn  up,  I  lub  her  for  ebba  and  ebba  mo.'  " 

The  Creole  displayed  the  natural  cunning  of  her  race  in  con- 
ceiving this  passionate  speech  — their  adroitness  in  giving  tongue 
to  it. 

It  was  a  fiction,  besides  being  commonplace.  Notwithstanding 
this,  it  gave  gratification  to  her  young  mistress,  as  she  intended  it 
should. 

And  it  also  brought  sleep  to  her  eyes.     Soon  after,  resting  net 


*  It  is  Sweet — so  Sweet**  297 

cheek  upon  the  pillow,  whose  white  case  was  almost  hidden  under 
the  loose  flood  of  her  dishevelled  hair,  she  sank  into  slumber. 

It  was  pleasant,  if  not  profound.  Sabby,  sitting  beside  the 
bed,  and  gazing  upon  the  countenance  of  the  sleeper,  could  tell 
by  the  play  of  her  features  that  hei  spirit  was  disturbed  by  a 
dream. 

It  could  not  be  a  painful  one.  Otherwise  would  it  have  con- 
tiadicted  the  words,  that  in  soft  murmuring  came  forth  from  her 
unconscious  lips  : 

"  Isnowi  know  that  he  loves  me.     Oh  !  it  is  sweet — so  sweet  /  n 

"  Dat  young  gal  am  in  lub  to  de  berry  tops  ob  her  toe  nails. 
Sleepin'  or  wakin'  she  nebba  get  cured  ob  dat  passion— nebba  I" 

And  with  this  sage  forecast,  the  Creole  took  up  the  bedroom 
candlestick,  and  silently  retired 


CHAPTER   LXIV. 

A     PAINFUL     PROMISE. 

However  light  and  sweet  had  been  her  slumber,  Blanche  Vernon 
awoke  with  a  heaviness  on  her  mind. 

Before  her,  in  her  sleep,  had  been  a  face,  on  which  she  loved 
to  look.  Awake,  she  could  think  only  of  one  she  had  reason 
to  fear — the  face  of  an  angry  father. 

The  Creole  co?ifida7ite,  while  dressing  her,  observed  her  trepi- 
dation, and  endeavoured  to  inspire  her  with  courage.     In  vain. 

The  young  girl  trembled  as  she  descended  the  stair  in  obedi- 
ence to  the  summons  for  breakfast. 

There  was  no  need  yet  She  was  safe  in  the  company  of  her 
father's  guests,  assembled  around  the  table.  The  only  one  miss- 
ing was  Maynard. 

But  no  one  made  remark ;  and  the  gap  had  been  more  than 
filled  up  by  some  fresh  arrivals — among  them  a  distinguished 
foreign  nobleman. 

Thus  screened,  Blanche  was  beginning  to  gain  confidence — to 
hope  he:  father  would  say  nothing  to  her  of  what  had  passed. 

She  was  not  such  a  child  as  to  suppose  he  would  forget  it 
What  she  most  feared  was  his  calling  her  to  a  confession. 

And  she  dreaded  this,  from  a  knowledge  of  her  own  heart 
She  knew  that  she  could  not,  and  would  not,  deceive  him. 

The  hour  after  breakfast  was  passed  by  her  in  feverish  anxiety. 
She  watched  the  gentlemen  as  they  went  off,  guns  in  hand,  and 
dogs  at  heel.     She  hoped  to  see  her  father  go  along  with  them. 

He  did  not ;  and  she  became  excitedly  anxious  on  being  told 
that  he  intended  staying  at  home. 

Sabina  had  learnt  this  from  his  valet 

It  was  almost  a  relief  to  her  when  the  footman,  approaching 
with  a  salute,  announced  that  Sir  George  wished  to  see  her  in  the 
library. 


A  Painful  Promise.  299 

She  turned  pale  at  the  summons.     She  could  not  help  showing 

emotion,  even  in  the  presence  of  the  servant 

But  the  exhibition  went  no  further;  and,  recovering  her  proud 
air,  she  followed  him  in  the  direction  of  the  library. 

Her  heart  again  sank  as  she  entered.  She  saw  that  her  father 
was  alone,  and  by  his  serious  look  she  knew  she  was  approaching 
an  ordeal. 

It  was  a  strange  expression,  that  upon  Sir  George's  face.  She 
had  expected  anger.  It  was  not  there.  Nor  even  severity.  The 
look  more  resembled  one  of  sadness. 

And  there  was  the  same  in  the  tone  of  his  voice  as  he  spoke  to 
her. 

"  Take  a  seat,  my  child,"  were  his  first  words,  as  he  motioned 
her  to  a  sofa. 

She  obeyed  without  making  answer. 

She  reached  the  sofa  not  an  instant  too  soon.  She  felt  so 
crushed  in  spirit,  she  could  not  have  kept  upon  her  feet  much 
longer. 

There  was  an  irksome  interlude  before  Sir  George  again  opened 
his  lips.  It  seemed  equally  so  to  him.  He  was  struggling  with 
painful  thoughts. 

"  My  daughter,"  said  he,  making  an  effort  to  still  his  emotion, 
"  I  need  not  tell  you  for  what  reason  I've  sent  for  you  ?  " 

He  paused,  though  not  for  a  reply.  He  did  not  expect  one, 
It  was  only  to  gain  time  for  considering  his  next  speech. 

The  child  sate  silent,  her  body  bent,  her  arms  crossed  Over  her 
knees,  her  head  drooping  low  between  them. 

"  I  need  not  tell  you,  either,"  continued  Sir  George,  "  that  I 
overheard  what  passed  between  you  and " 

Another  pause,  as  if  he  hated  to  pronounce  the  name. 

u  This  stranger,  who  has  entered  my  house  like  a  thief  and  a 
villain." 

In  the  drooping  form  before  him  there  was  just  perceptible  the 
slightest  start,  followed  by  a  tinge  of  red  upon  her  cheek,  and  a 
shivering  throughout  her  frame. 

She  said  nothing,  though  it  was  plain  the  speech  had  given  pain 
to  her. 

"  1  know  not  what  words  may  have  been  exchanged  between 


300  The  Child  Wife. 


you  before.  Enough  what  I  heard  last  night — enough  to  have 
broken  my  heart." 

"  O  father  !  " 

u  'Tis  true,  my  child  !  You  know  how  carefully  I've  brought 
you  up,  how  tenderly  I've  cherished,  how  dearly  I  love  you  1" 

"  O  father  !  " 

"  Yes,  Blanche ;  you've  been  to  me  all  your  mother  was ;  the 
only  thing  on  earth  I  had  to  care  for,  or  who  cared  for  me.  And 
this  to  arise — to  blight  all  my  fond  expectations — I  could  not 
have  believed  it ! " 

The  young  girl's  bosom  rose  and  fell  in  convulsive  undulations, 
while  big  tear-drops  ran  coursing  down  her  cheeks;  like  a  spring 
shower  from  the  blue  canopy  of  heaven. 

"  Father,  forgive  me  !  You  will  forgive  me!"  were  the  words 
to  which  she  gave  utterance  -  not  in  continued  speech,  but  inter- 
rupted by  spasmodic  sobbing. 

"Tell  me,"  said  he,  without  responding  to  the  passionate  ar> 
peal.  "  There  is  something  I  wish  to  know — something  more. 
Did  you  speak  to — to  Captain  Maynard — last  night,  after * 

"  After  when,  papa  ?  " 

"  After  parting  from  him  outside,  under  the  tree  ?  n 

"  No,  father,  I  did  not." 

"  But  you  wrote  to  him  f  " 

The  cheek  of  Blanche  Vernon,  again  pale,  suddenly  became 
flushed  to  the  colour  of  carmine.  It  rose  almost  to  the  blue 
irides  of  her  eyes,  still  glistening  with  tears. 

Before,  it  had  been  a  flush  of  indignation.  Now  it  was  the 
blush  of  shame.  What  her  father  had  seen  and  heard  under  the 
diodara,  if  a  sin,  was  not  one  for  which  she  felt  herself  account- 
able. She  had  but  followed  the  piomptings  of  her  innocent  heart, 
benighted  by  the  noblest  passion  of  her  nature. 

What  she  had  done  since  was  an  action,  she  could  have  con- 
trolled. She  was  conscious  of  disobedience,  and  this  was  to  be 
conscious  of  having  committed  crime.  She  did  not  attempt  to 
deny  it.     She  only  hesitated  through  surprise  at  the  question. 

"  You  wrote  a  note  to  him  ?  "  said  her  father,  repeating  it  with 
A  slight  alteration  in  the  form. 

"  I  did" 


A  Painful  Promise.  301 

"  I  will  not  insist  on  knowing  what  was  in  it.  From  your  can- 
dour, my  child,  I'm  sure  you  would  tell  me.  I  only  ask  you  to 
promise  that  you  will  not  write  to  him  again." 

"O  father!" 

"  That  you  will  neither  write  to  him,  nor  see  him/ 

"  O  father  ! " 

"  On  this  I  insist.  But  not  with  the  authority  I  have  over  you. 
I  have  no  faith  in  that.  I  ask  it  of  you  as  a  favour.  I  ask  it  on 
my  knees,  as  your  father,  your  dearest  friend.  Full  well,  my  child, 
do  I  know  your  honourable  nature ;  and  that  if  given,  it  will  be 
kept.  Promise  me,  then,  that  you  will  neither  write  to  nor  see 
him  again  ! " 

Once  more  the  young  girl  sobbed  convulsively.  Her  own  father 
— her  proud  father  at  her  feet  as  an  intercessor  1  No  wonder  she 
wept. 

And  with  the  thought  of  for  ever,  and  by  one  single  word,  cut- 
ting herself  off  from  all  communication  with  the  man  she  loved 
— the  man  who  had  saved  her  life  only  to  make  it  for  ever  after 
unhappy  ! 

No  wonder  she  hesitated.  No  wonder  that  for  a  time  her 
heart  balanced  between  duty  and  love — between  parent  and 
lover ! 

"  Dear,  dear  child  ! "  pursued  her  father,  in  a  tone  of  appealing 
tenderness,  "  promise  you  will  never  know  him  more — without 
my  permission." 

Was  it  the  agonized  accents  that  moved  her  ?  Was  it  some 
vague  hope,  drawn  from  the  condition  with  which  the  appeal  was 
concluded  ? 

Whether  or  no,  she  gave  the  promise,  though  to  pronounce  it 
was  like  splitting  her  heart  in  twain. 


CHAPTER  LXV. 

SPIES. 

The  friendship  between  Kossuth  and  Captain  Maynaid  was  of  no 
common  character.  It  had  not  sprung  out  of  a  mere  chance 
acquaintance,  but  from  circumstances  calculated  to  cause  mutual 
respect  and  admiration. 

In  Maynard,  the  illustrious  Magyar  saw  a  man  like  himself — 
devoted  heart  and  soul  to  the  cause  of  liberty. 

True,  he  had  as  yet  done  little  for  it.  But  this  did  not  nega- 
tive his  intention,  fixed  and  fearless.  Kossuth  knew  he  had  ven- 
tured out  into  the  storm  to  shake  a  hand  with,  and  draw  a  sword 
in,  his  defence.  Too  late  for  the  battle-field,  he  had  since  de- 
fended him  with  his  pen ;  and  in  the  darkest  hour  of  his  esile, 
when  others  stood  aloof. 

In  Kossuth,  Maynard  recognised  one  of  the  "great  ones  of 
the  world  " — great  not  only  in  deeds  and  thoughts,  but  in  all  the 
Divine  attributes  of  humanity — in  short,  goodly  great. 

It  was  in  contemplating  Kossuth's  character,  he  first  discovered 
the  falsity  of  the  trite  phrase,  "Familiarity  breeds  contempt." 
Like  most  proverbs,  true  only  when  applied  to  ordinary  men  and 
things.     The  reverse  with  men  truly  great. 

To  his  own  valet  Kossuth  would  have  been  a  hero.  Much 
more  was  he  one  in  the  eyes  of  his  friend. 

The  more  Maynard  knew  of  him,  the  more  intimate  their  re- 
lationship became,  the  less  was  he  able  to  restrain  his  admiration. 

He  had  grown  not  only  to  admire,  but  love  him ;  and  would 
have  done  for  him  any  service  consistent  with  honour. 

Kossuth  was  not  the  man  to  require  more. 

Maynard  was  witness  to  the  pangs  of  his  exile,  and  sympa- 
thised with  him  as  a  son,  or  brother.  He  felt  indignant  at  the 
scurvy  treatment  he  was  receiving,  and  from  a  people  boastful  of 
its  hospitality  i 


Spits.  303 

This  indignation  reached  its  highest,  when  on  a  certain  day 
Kossuth,  standing  in  his  studio,  called  his  attention  to  a  house  on 
the  opposite  side  of  the  street,  telling  him  it  was  inhabited  by 
spies. 

"  Spies  !  What  kind  of  spies  ?  " 

"  Political,  I  suppose  we  may  call  them." 

"  M>  dear  Governor,  you  must  be  mistaken  !  We  have  no 
such  thing  in  England.  It  would  not  be  permitted  for  a  moment 
— that  is,  if  known  to  the  English  people." 

It  was  Maynard  himself  who  was  mistaken.  He  was  but 
echoing  the  popular  boast  and  belief  of  the  day. 

There  were  political  spies  for  all  that;  though  it  was  the  sup- 
posed era  of  their  first  introduction,  and  the  thing  was  not  known. 
It  became  so  afterward  ;  and  was  permitted  by  this  people — 
silently  acquiesced  in  by  John  Bull,  according  to  his  custom 
when  any  such  encroachment  is  made — so  long  as  it  does  not 
increase  the  tax  upon  his  beer. 

"WThether  known  or  not,"  answered  the  ex-Governor,  "they 
are  there.  Step  forward  to  the  window  here,  and  I  shall  show 
you  one  of  them." 

Maynard  joined  Kossuth  at  the  window,  where  he  had  been 
for  a  time  standing. 

"  You  had  better  keep  the  curtain  as  a  screen— if  you  don't 
wish  to  be  recognised." 

"  For  what  should  I  care  ?  w 

"  Well,  my  dear  captain,  this  is  your  own  country.  Your 
coming  to  my  house  may  compromise  you.  It  will  make  you 
many  powerful  enemies." 

"As  for  that,  Governor,  the  thing's  done  already.  All  know 
me  as  your  friend." 

"  Only  as  my  defender.  All  do  not  know  you  as  a  plotter  and 
conspirator — such  as  the  Times  describes  me." 

u  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  ! "  laughed  the  elect  of  a  German  revolutionary 
committee.  "  Much  do  I  care  about  that !  Such  a  conspirator. 
I'd  be  only  too  proud  of  the  title.     Where  is  this  precious  spy  ? 

As  Maynard  put  the  question,  he  stepped  on  into  the  window, 
without  thinking  of  the  curtain. 

"  Look  up  to  that  casement  in   the  second  storey,"  directed 


304  The  Child  Wife. 

Kossuth ;  "  the  cottage  nearly  opposite — first  window  from  the 
corner.     Do  you  see  anything  there  ?  " 

"  No  ;  nothing  but  a  Venetian  blind." 

" But  the  laths  are  apart.  Can  you  see  nothing  behind  them? 
I  do  distinctly.  The  scoundrels  are  not  cunning.  They  forget 
there's  a  back  light  beyond,  which  enables  me  to  take  note  of 
their  movements." 

"  Ah  ! "  said  Maynard,  still  gazing.  "  Now  I  see.  I  can  make 
out  the  figure  of  a  man  seated  or  standing  in  the  window." 

"Yes;  and  there  he  is  seated  or  standing  all  day;  he  or 
another.  They  appear  to  take  it  in  turns.  At  night  they  descend 
to  the  street.  Don't  look  any  longer  !  He  is  watching  us  now  ; 
and  it  won't  do  to  let  him  know  that  he's  suspected.  I  have  my 
reasons  for  appearing  ignorant  of  this  espionage." 

Maynard,  having  put  on  a  careless  look,  was  about  drawing 
back,  when  a  hansom  cab  drove  up  to  the  gate  of  the  house 
opposite,  discharging  a  gentleman,  who,  furnished  with  a  gate- 
key,  entered  without  ringing  the  bell. 

"  That,"  said  Kossuth,  "  is  the  chief  spy,  who  appears  to  em- 
ploy a  considerable  staff — among  them  a  number  of  elegant 
ladies.  My  poor  concerns  must  cost  your  government  a  good 
sum." 

Maynard  was  not  attending  to  the  remark.  His  thoughts,  as 
well  as  eyes,  were  still  occupied  with  the  gentleman  who  had 
got  out  of  the  cab ;  and  who,  before  disappearing  behind  the 
lilacs  and  laurels,  was  recognised  by  him  as  his  old  antagonist, 
Swinton  !  Captain  Maynard  did  that  he  had  before  refused,  and 
suddenly.     He  concealed  himself  behind  the  window  curtain  \ 

Kossuth  observing  it,  inquired  why  ? 

"  I  chance  to  know  the  man,"  was  Maynard's  answer.  "  Par- 
don me,  Governor,  for  having  doubted  your  word  !  I  can  believe 
now  what  you've  told  me.  Spies !  Oh  I  if  the  English  people 
knew  this  1     They  would  not  stand  it !  " 

"  Dear  friend  !  don't  go  into  rhapsodies  1     They  will  stand  it." 

"  But  I  won't  ! "  cried  Maynard,  in  a  frenzy  of  indignation. 
"If  I  can't  reach  the  head  of  this  fiendish  conspiracy,  I'll  punish 
the  tool  thus  employed.  Tell  me,  Governor,  how  long  since 
these  foul  birds  have  built  their  nest  over  there  ?  " 


Spies,  305 

"They  came  about  a  week  ago.  The  house  was  occupied  by  a 
bank  clerk — a  Scotchman,  I  believe — who  seemed  to  turn  out 
very  suddenly.     They  entered  upon  the  same  day." 

"  A  week,"  said  Maynard,  reflecting.  "  That's  well.  He  can- 
not have  seen  me.  It's  ten  days  since  I  was  here — and — 
and " 

"What  are  you  thinking  of,  my  dear  captain?"  asked  Kossuth, 
seeing  that  his  friend  was  engaged  in  deep  cogitation. 

"  Of  a  revanche — a  revenge,  if  you  prefer  having  it  in  our 
vernacular." 

"  Against  whom  ?  " 

"That  scoundrel  of  a  spy — the  chief  one.  I  know  him  of  old. 
I've  long  owed  him  a  score  on  my  own  account ;  and  I  am  now 
doubly  in  his  debt  on  yours,  and  that  of  my  country — disgraced 
by  this  infamy  !  " 

"  And  how  would  you  act  ?" 

Maynard  did  not  make  immediate  answer.  He  was  still 
reflecting. 

"  Governor  ! "  he  said,  after  a  time,  "  you've  told  me  that  your 
guests  are  followed  by  one  or  other  of  these  fellows?  " 

"  Always  followed ;  on  foot  if  they  be  walking ;  in  a  cab  if 
riding.  It  is  a  hansom  cab  that  follows  them — the  same  you 
saw  just  now.  It  is  gone ;  but  only  to  the  corner,  where  it  is 
kept  continually  on  the  stand — its  driver  having  instructions  to 
obey  a  signal." 

"  What  sort  of  a  signal  ?  " 

"  It  is  made  by  the  sounding  of  a  shrill  whistle — a  dog-call." 

"  And  who  rides  in  the  hansom  ?  " 

"  One  or  other  of  the  two  fellows  you  have  seen.  In  the  day- 
time it  is  the  one  who  occupies  the  blinded  window ;  at  night  the 
duty  is  usually  performed  by  the  gentleman  just  returned — your 
old  acquaintance,  as  you  say." 

"  This  will  do !  "  said  Maynard,  in  soliloquy. 

Then,  turning  to  Kossuth,  he  inquired  : 

"  Governor  !  have  you  any  objection  to  my  remaining  your 
guest  till  the  sun  goes  down,  and  a  little  after  ?  " 

"My  dear  captain !  Why  do  you  ask  the  question  ?  You 
know  how  glad  I  shall  be  of  your  company." 

x 


3o6  The  Child  Wife. 


"Another  question.  Do  you  chance  to  have  in  your  house 
such  a  thing  as  a  horsewhip  ?  " 

"  My  adjutant,  Ihasz,  has,  I  believe.  He  is  devoted  to 
hunting." 

"Still  another  question.  Is  there  among  Madam's  wardrobe 
half  a  yard  of  black  crape  ?     A  quarter  of  a  yard  will  do." 

"Ah!"  sighed  the  exile,  "my  poor  wife's  wardrobe  is  all  jf 
that  colour.  I'm  sure  she  can  supply  you  with  plenty  of  crape. 
But  say,  cher  capitaine  /  what  do  you  want  with  it  ?  " 

"  Don't  ask  me  to  tell  you,  your  Excellency — not  now.  Be  so 
good  as  to  lend  me  those  two  things.  To-morrow  I  shall  return 
them  ;  and  at  the  same  time  give  you  an  account  of  the  use  I 
have  made  of  them.  If  fortune  favour  me,  it  will  be  then 
possible  to  do  so." 

Kossuth,  perceiving  that  his  friend  was  determined  on  reti- 
cence, did  not  further  press  for  an  explanation. 

He  lit  a  long  chibouque,  of  which  some  half-dozen — presents 
received  during  his  captivity  at  Kutayah,  in  Turkey — stood  in  a 
corner  of  the  room.  Inviting  Maynard  to  take  one  of  them,  the 
two  sate  smoking  and  talking,  till  the  light  of  a  street-lamp, 
flashing  athwart  the  window,  told  them  the  day  was  done. 

"  Now,  Governor  !  "  said  Maynard,  getting  up  out  of  his  chair, 
"  I've  but  one  more  request  to  make  of  you — that  you  will  send 
out  your  servant  to  fetch  me  a  cab." 

"  Of  course,"  said  Kossuth,  touching  a  spring-bell  that  stood 
on  the  table  of  Lis  studio. 

A  domestic  made  appearance — a  girl,  whose  stolid  German 
physiognomy  Maynard  seemed  to  distrust.  Not  that  he  disliked 
her  looks ;  but  she  was  not  the  thing  for  his  purpose. 

"  Does  your  Excellency  keep  a  man-servant  ? "  he  asked. 
"  Excuse  me  for  putting  such  a  question  !  " 

"  Indeed,  no,  my  dear  captain  !  In  my  poor  exiled  state  I  do 
not  feel  justified.  If  it  is  only  to  fetch  a  cab,  Gertrude  can  do  it 
She  speaks  English  well  enough  for  that." 

Maynard  once  more  glanced  at  the  girl — still  distrustingly. 

"  Stay  1 "  said  Kossuth.  "  There's  a  man  comes  to  us  in  the 
evenings.  Perhaps  he  is  here  now.  Gertrude,  is  Karl  Steiner 
in  the  kitchen  ?  " 


Spits.  307 

"  Ya,"  was  the  laconic  answer. 

"  Tell  him  to  come  to  me." 

Gertrude  drew  back,  perhaps  wondering  why  she  was  not  con- 
sidered smart  enough  to  be  sent  for  a  hackney. 

"  He's  an  intelligent  fellow,  this  Karl,"  said  Kossuth,  af*„i  the 
girl  had  gone  out  of  tne  room.  "  He  speaks  English  fluently,  or 
you  may  talk  to  him  in  French ;  and  you  can  also  trust  him  with 
your  confidence." 

Karl  came  in. 

His  looks  did  not  belie  the  description  the  ex-governor  had 
given  of  him. 

"  Do  you  know  anything  of  horses  ? "  was  the  first  question, 
put  to  him  in  French. 

"  I  have  been  ten  years  in  the  stables  of  Count  Teleki.  His 
Excellency  knows  that." 

"  Yes,  captain.  This  young  man  has  been  groom  to  our  friend 
Teleki ;  and  you  know  the  count's  propensity  for  horseflesh." 

Kossuth  spoke  of  a  distinguished  Hungarian  noble ;  then,  like 
himself,  a  refugee  in  London. 

"  Enough  ! "  said  Maynard,  apparently  satisfied  that  Steiner 
was  his  man.  "  Now,  Monsieur  Karl,  I  merely  want  you  to  call 
me  a  cab." 

"Which  sort,  votre  seig?ieurie  ?  "  asked  the  ex-groom,  giving  the 
true  stable  salute.     "  Hansom  or  four-wheeler  ?  " 

"  Hansom,"  replied  Maynard,  pleased  with  the  man's  sharp, 
ness. 

"  Trh  bitn.n 

"  And  hear  me,  Monsieur  Karl ;  I  want  you  to  select  one  with 
a  horse  that  can  go.     You  understand  me?" 

"  Parfaitement." 

"  When  you've  brought  it  to  the  gate,  come  inside  here ;  and 
don't  wait  to  see  me  into  it." 

With  another  touch  to  his  cap,  Karl  went  off  on  his  errand. 

"  Now,  Governor  !  "  said  Maynard,  "  I  must  ask  you  to  look  up 
that  horsewhip  and  quarter-yard  of  crape.' 

Kossuth  appeared  in  a  quandary. 

"  I  hope,  captain,"  he  said,  "  you  don't  intend  any 

M  Excuse   me,    your   Excellency,"  said   Maynard,  interrupting 


308  The  Child  Wife. 


him.  "I  don't  intend  anything  that  may  compromise  you.  I 
have  my  own  feelings  to  satisfy  in  this  matter — my  own  wrongs  I 
might  call  them  ;  more  than  that — those  of  my  country." 

The  patriotic  speech  went  home  to  the  Hungarian  patriot's 
heart.  He  made  no  further  attempt  at  appeasing  the  irate  adven- 
turer ;  but  stepping  hastily  out  of  the  room,  soon  returned,  carry- 
ing the  crape  and  horsewhip  —  the  latter  a  true  hound-scorer 
with  buckhorn  handle." 

The  gritting  of  wheels  on  the  gravel  told  that  the  cab  had 
drawn  up  before  the  gate. 

"Good-night,  Governor  1"  said  Maynard,  taking  the  things 
from  Kossuth's  hand.  "  If  the  Times  of  to-morrow  tells  you  oi 
a  gentleman  having  been  soundly  horsewhipped,  don't  say  it  was 
I  who  did  it" 

And  with  this  singular  caution,  Maynard  made  his  adieus  tc 
the  ex-Dictator  of  Hungary  1 


CHAPTEF   LXVL 

TWO   CABS 

Ik  London  dark  nights  are  the  rule,  not  the  exception.  More 
especially  in  the  month  of  November ;  when  the  fog  rolls  up 
from  the  muddy  Thames,  spreading  its  plague-like  pall  over  the 
metropolis. 

On  just  such  a  night  a  cab  might  have  been  seen  issuing  from 
the  embouchure  of  South  Bank,  passing  down  Park  Road,  and 
turning  abruptly  into  the  Park,  through  the  "  Hanover  Gate." 

So  dense  was  the  fog,  it  could  only  have  been  seen  by  one  who 
chanced  to  be  near  it ;  and  very  near  to  know  that  it  was  a 
hansom. 

The  bull's-eye  burning  overhead  in  front  reflected  inside  just 
sufficient  light  to  show  that  it  carried  only  a  single  "  fare,"  of  the 
masculine  gender. 

A  more  penetrating  light  would  have  made  apparent  a  gentle- 
man— so  far  as  dress  was  concerned — sitting  with  something  held 
in  his  hand  that  resembled  a  hunting-whip. 

But  the  brightest  light  would  not  have  sufficed  for  the  scanning 
of  his  face — concealed  as  it  was  behina  a  covering  of  crape. 

Before  the  cab  carrying  him  had  got  clear  of  the  intricacies 
of  South  Bank,  a  low  whistle  was  heard  both  by  him  and  his 
driver. 

He  seemed  to  have  been  listening  for  it  ;>and  was  not  surprised 
to  see  another  cab — a  hansom  like  his  own — standing  on  the 
corner  of  Park  Road  as  he  passed  out — its  Jehu,  with  reins  in 
hand,  just  settling  himself  upon  his  seat,  as  if  preparing  to  start. 
Any  one,  who  could  have  looked  upon  his  face  at  the  moment, 
could  have  told  he  had  been  expecting  it. 

Nor  was  he  astonished,  on  passing  through  Hanover  Gate,  to 
perceive  that  the  second  cab  was  coming  after  him. 

If  you  enter  the  Regent's  Park  by  this  gate,  take  the  left-hand 


3io  The  Child  Wife, 

turning,  and  proceed  for  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile,  you  will  reac: 
a  spot  secluded  as  any  within  the  limits  of  London.  It  is  where 
the  canal,  traversing  along  the  borders  of  the  Park,  but  inside  its 
palings,  runs  between  deep  embankments,  on  both  sides  densely 
wooded.  So  solitary  is  this  place,  that  a  stranger  to  the  locality 
could  not  believe  himself  to  be  within  the  boundaries  of  the 
British  metropolis. 

On  the  night  in  question  neither  the  Park  hag,  nor  its  con- 
stable, were  encountered  along  the  drive.  The  damp,  dense  fog 
rendered  it  uncomfortable  for  both. 

All  the  more  favourable  for  him  carried  in  the  leading  cab, 
whose  design  required  darkness. 

"  Jarvey ! "  said  he,  addressing  himself  to  his  driver,  through 
the  little  trap-door  overhead.  "  You  see  that  hansom  behind 
us?" 

"  Can't  see,  but  I  hear  it,  sir." 

"Well ;  there's  a  gentleman  inside  it  I  intend  horsewhipping." 

"  All  right,  sir.     Tell  me  when  you  want  to  stop." 

"  I  want  to  stop  about  three  hundred  yards  this  side  of  the 
Zoological  Gardens.  There's  a  copse  that  comes  close  to  the  road. 
Pull  up  alongside  of  it ;  and  stay  there  till  I  return  to  you." 

"  Ay,  ay,  sir,"  responded  the  driver,  who,  having  received  a 
sovereign  in  advance,  was  dead-bent  on  obedience.  "  Anything 
else  I  can  do  for  your  honour  ?  " 

"  All  I  want  of  you  is,  if  you  hear  any  interference  on  the  part 
of  his  driver,  you  might  leave  your  horse  for  a  little — just  to  see 
(air  play." 

"  Trust  me,  your  honour  !  Don't  trouble  yourself  about  that. 
I'll  take  care  of  him  ! " 

If  there  be  any  chivalry  in  a  London  cabman,  it  is  to  be  found 
in  the  driver  of  a  hansom — especially  after  having  received  a 
sovereign  with  the  prospect  of  earning  another.  This  was  well 
known  to  his  "  fare"  with  the  craped  face. 

On  reaching  the  described  copse  the  leading  cab  was  pulled 
up — its  passenger  leaping  instantly  out,  and  gliding  in  under  the 
trees. 

Almost  at  the  same  instant,  its  pursuer  came  to  a  stand— some- 
what to  the  surprise  of  him  who  sate  inside  it 


Two  Cabs, 


"They've  stopped,  sir,"  said  the  driver,  whispering  dcr*n  through 
the  trap. 

"  I  see  that,  d n  them  !     What  can  it  be  for  ?  n 

"  To  give  you  a  horsewhipping  ! "  cried  a  man  wiba  a  masked 
face,  springing  up  on  the  footboard,  and  clutching  the  inquirer  by 
the  collar. 

A  piteous  cry  from  Mr.  Swinton — for  it  was  he — did  not  hinder 
him  from  being  dragged  out  of  his  hansom,  and  receiving  a 
chastisement  he  would  remember  to  his  dying  day ! 

His  driver,  leaping  from  the  box,  made  show  to  interfere.  But 
he  was  met  by  another  driver  equally  eager,  and  somewhat 
stronger ;  who,  seizing  him  by  the  throat,  did  not  let  go  his  hold 
of  him  till  he  had  fairly  earned  the  additional  sovereign ! 

A  policeman  who  chanced  to  overhear  the  piteous  cries  of 
Swinton,  came  straddling  up  to  the  spot ;  but  only  after  the 
scuffle  had  ended,  and  the  wheels  of  a  switt  cab  departing 
through  the  thick  fog  told  him  he  was  too  late  to  take  the 
aggressor  into  custody ! 

The  spy  proceeded  no  farther. 

After  being  disembarrassed  of  the  policeman,  he  wak  but  too 
happy  to  be  driven  back  to  the  villa  in  South  Bank. 


CHAPTER  LXVIL 

DISINTERESTED    SYMPATHY. 

On  arriving  at  his  own  residence,  Swinton's  servants  scarely  re- 
cxvgnised  him.  It  was  as  much  as  his  own  wife  could  do.  There 
were  several  dark  wales  traced  diagonally  across  his  cheeks, 
with  a  purple  shading  around  his  left  "  peeper  "  ;  for  in  punishing 
the  spy,  Maynard  had  made  use  not  only  of  an  implement  of  the 
hunting-field,  but  one  more  peculiar  to  the  "  ring." 

With  a  skin  full  of  sore  bones,  and  many  ugly  abrasions, 
Swinton  tottered  indoors,  to  receive  the  sympathies  of  his  beloved 
Fan. 

She  was  not  alone  in  bestowing  them.  Sir  Robert  Cottrell  had 
dropped  in  during  his  absence ;  and  the  friendly  baronet  appeared 
as  much  pained  as  if  the  sufferer  had  been  his  brother. 

He  had  less  difficulty  in  counterfeiting  sorrow.  His  chagrin  at 
the  quick  return  supplied  him  with  an  inspiration. 

"  What  is  it,  my  dear  Swinton  ?  For  heaven's  sake  tell  us  what 
has  happened  to  you  ?  " 

"  You  see,  Sir  Robert,"  answered  the  maltreated  man. 

"  I  see  that  you've  suffered  some  damage.     But  who  did  it  ?  w 

"  Footpads  in  the  Park.  I  was  driving  around  it  to  get  to  the 
east  side.  You  know  that  horrid  place  this  side  of  the  Zoo 
Gardens  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes,"  answered  Sir  Robert 

"Well;  I'd  got  round  there,  when  all  at  once  the  cab  was 
stopped  by  half  a  score  of  scoundrels,  and  I  was  instantly  pulled 
out  into  the  road.  While  half  of  them  took  hold  of  the  driver, 
the  other  half  proceeded  to  search  my  pockets.  Of  course  I 
resisted ;  and  you  see  what's  come  of  it.  They'd  have  killed  me, 
but  for  a  policeman  who  chanced  to  come  up,  after  I'd  done  my 
best,  and  was  about  getting  the  worst  of  it.  They  then  ran  ofl", 
leaving  me  in  this  precious  condition — d n  them  I " 


Disinterested  Sympathy.  313 

4  D n  them  ! "  said  Sir  Robert,   repeating  the  anathema 

with  pretended  indignation.  "  Do  you  think  there's  no  chance 
of  your  being  able  to  identify  them  ?  " 

"  Not  the  slightest  The  fog  was  so  thick  you  could  have  cut 
it  with  a  knife ;  and  they  ran  off,  before  the  policeman  could  get 
hold  of  any  one  of  them.  In  his  long  cumbersome  coat  it  would 
have  been  simple  nonsense  to  follow.  He  said  so;  and  of 
course  I  could  only  climb  back  into  my  cab  and  drive  home 
x.~.f.  It's  lucky  I  had  a  cab ;  for,  damme,  if  I  believe  I  could 
have  walked  it !  " 

"  By  Jove  !  you  do  appear  damaged  ! "  said  the  sympathising 
Coronet.     "  Don't  you  think  you  had  better  go  to  bed  ?  " 

Sir  Robert  had  a  design  in  the  suggestion. 

"  Oh,  no,"  rejoined  Swinton,  who,  despite  the  confusion  of  his 
ideas,  perfectly  understood  it.  "I'm  not  so  bad  as  that.  I'll 
take  a  lie-down  on  this  sofa ;  and  you,  Fan,  order  me  some 
brandy  and  water  !  You'll  join  me,  Sir  Robert  I'm  still  able  to 
smoke  a  cigar  with  you." 

"You'd  better  have  an  oyster  to  your  eye  ! "  said  the  baronet, 
drawing  out  his  glass  and  scrutinizing  the  empurpled  peeper. 
"  It  will  keep  down  that  ' mouse  '  that  seems  to  be  creeping  out 
underneath  it.     'Twill  help  to  take  out  the  colour." 

"  A  devilish  good  idea  !  Fan,  send  one  of  the  servants  for  an 
oyster.  Stay ;  while  they're  about  it  they  may  as  well  bring  a 
couple  of  dozen.     Could  you  eat  some,  Sir  Robert?" 

Sir  Robert  thought  he  could.  He  did  not  much  care  for  them, 
but  it  would  be  an  excuse  to  procrastinate  his  stay.  Perhaps 
something  might  turn  up  to  secure  him  a  tete-a-tcte  with  Mrs. 
Swinton.  He  had  just  commenced  one  that  was  promising  to  be 
agreeable,  when  so  unexpectedly  interrupted. 

'*  We  may  as  well  make  a  supper  of  it ! "  suggested  Swinton, 
who,  having  already  taken  a  gulp  of  the  brandy  and  water,  was 
feeling  himself  again. 

H  Let  the  servant  order  three  dozen,  my  dear.  That  will  be  a 
dozen  for  each  of  us." 

"No,  it  won't,"  jokingly  rejoined  the  baronet.  "With  three 
dozen,  some  of  us  will  have  to  be  contented  with  eleven.*' 

*  How  so,  Sir  Robert?0 


3 14  The  Child  Wife. 


"  You  forget  the  oyster  that  is  to  go  to  your  eye.  And  now  1 
look  more  carefully  at  that  adolescent  mouse,  I  think  it  will  re- 
quire at  least  a  couple  of  the  bivalves  to  give  it  a  propei 
covering." 

Suinton  laughed  at  the  baronet's  ready  wit.  How  could  he 
help  it?" 

"  Well,  let  them  be  baker's  dozen,"  he  said.  "That  will  cover 
everything." 

Three  baker's  dozen  were  ordered  and  brought 

Fan  saw  to  them  being  stewed  in  the  kitchen,  and  placed  with 
appropriate  "  trimmings "  on  the  table ;  while  the  biggest  of 
them,  spread  upon  a  white  rag,  was  laid  against  her  husband's 
eye,  and  there  snugly  bandaged. 

It  blinded  that  one  eye.  Stingy  as  he  was,  Sir  Robert  would 
have  given  a  sovereign  had  it  shut  the  sight  out  of  both  ! 

But  it  did  not ;  and  the  three  sate  down  to  supper,  his  host 
keeping  the  sound  eye  upon  him. 

And  so  carefully  was  it  kept  upon  him,  that  the  baronet  felt 
bored  with  the  situation,  and  wished  himself  back  at  his  club. 

He  thought  of  making  some  excuse  to  escape  from  it ;  and 
then  of  staying,  and  trying  to  make  the  best  of  it 

An  idea  occurred  to  him. 

"  This  brute  sometimes  gets  drunk,"  was  his  mental  soliloquy, 
as  he  looked  across  the  table  at  his  host  with  the  Cyclopean  eye. 
'*  If  I  can  make  him  so,  there  might  be  a  chance  of  getting  a 
word  with  her.  I  wonder  whether  it  can  be  done  ?  It  can't  cost 
much  to  try.     Half  a  dozen  of  champagne  ought  to  do  it." 

"  I  say,  Swinton !  "  he  said  aloud,  addressing  his  host  in  a 
friendly,  familiar  manner.  "  I  never  eat  stewed  oysters  without 
champagne.  Have  you  got  any  in  the  house  ?  Excuse  me  for 
asking  the  question  !     It's  a  positive  impertinence." 

"  Nothing  of  the  sort,  Sir  Robert.  I'm  only  sorry  to  say  there's 
not  a  single  bottle  of  champagne  in  my  cellar.  We've  been  here 
such  a  short  while,  and  I've  not  had  time  to  stock  it  But  no 
matter  for  that.     I  can  send  out,  and  get " 

"  No  1 "  said  the  baronet,  interrupting  him.  T  shan't  permit 
that ;  unless  you  allow  me  to  pay  for  it" 

"Sir  Robert!" 


sted  Sympathy.  315 

wd,  my  dear  fellow.  That  isn't  what  I  mean. 
The  reason  why  I've  made  the  offer  is  because  I  know  you 
can't  get  real  champagne  in  this  neighbourhood — not  nearer  than 
Win ck worth's.  Now,  it  so  happens,  that  they,  are  my  wine  mer- 
chants. Let  me  send  to  them.  It  isn't  very  far.  Your  servant, 
m  a  hansom  cab,  can  fetch  the  stuff,  and  be  back  in  fifteen 
minutes.     But  to  get  the  right  stuff  he  must  order  it  for  me" 

Sir  Robert's  host  was  not  the  man  to  stand  upon  punctilios. 
Good  champagne  was  not  so  easily  procured — especially  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  St.  John's  Wood.  He  knew  it ;  and,  surren- 
dering his  scruples,  he  rang  the  bell  for  the  servant,  permitting 
Sir  Robert  to  write  out  the  order.  It  was  carte  blanche^  both  for 
the  cab  and  champagne. 

In  less  than  twenty  minutes  the  messenger  returned,  bringing 
back  with  him  a  basket  of  choice  "  Cliquot." 

In  five  minutes  more  a  bottle  was  uncorked ;  and  the  three 
sat  quaffing  it,  Swinton,  his  wife,  and  the  stingy  nobleman  who 
stood  treat — not  stingy  now  over  that  which  promised  him  s 
pleasure. 


CHAPTER  UMHIL 

AN    IRKSOME    IMPRISONMENT. 

Succeeding  his  castigation,  it  was  all  of  a  week  before  Mi. 
Swinton  could  make  appearance  upon  the  streets — during  day- 
light. 

The  discoloration  of  his  cheeks,  caused  by  the  horsewhip,  was 
slow  of  coming  out ;  and  even  the  oyster  kept  on  for  twenty-four 
hours  failed  to  eliminate  the  purple  crescent  under  his  eye. 

He  had  to  stay  indoors — sneaking  out  only  at  night. 

The  pain  was  slight.  But  the  chagrin  was  intolerable  ;  and  he 
would  have  given  a  good  sum  out  of  his  spy  pay  to  have  had 
revenge  upon  the  man  who  had  so  chastised  him. 

This  was  impossible ;  and  for  several  reasons,  among  others, 
his  ignorance  of  whom  it  was.  He  only  knew  that  his  chastiser  had 
been  a  guest  of  Kossuth ;  and  this  from  his  having  come  out  of 
Kossuth's  house.  He  had  not  himself  seen  the  visitor  as  he  went 
in ;  and  his  subordinate,  who  shared  with  him  the  duplicate  duty 
of  watching  and  dogging,  did  not  know  him.  He  was  a  stranger 
who  had  not  been  there  before — at  least  since  the  establishment 
of  the  picket. 

From  the  description  given  of  his  person,  as  also  what  Swinton 
had  himself  seen  of  it  through  the  thick  fog^something,  too,  rrom 
what  he  had  felt — he  had  formed,  in  his  own  mind,  a  suspicion 
as  to  whom  the  individual  was.  He  could  not  help  thinking  of 
Maynard.  It  may  seem  strange  he  should  have  thought  of  him. 
But  no;  for  the  truth  is,  that  Maynard  was  rarely  out  of  his  mind. 
The  affair  at  Newport  was  a  thing  not  easily  forgotten.  And 
there  was  the  other  affair  in  Paris,  where  Julia  Girdwood  had 
shown  an  interest  in  the  Zouaves'  captive  that  did  not  escape 
observation  from  her  jealous  escort. 

He  had  been  made  aware  of  her  brief  absence  from  the  Louvre 
Hotel,  and  conjectured  its  object.     Notwithstanding  the  apparent 

3*« 


An  Irksome  Imprisonment.  31? 

slight  she  had  put  upon  his  rival  in  the  Newport  ball-room,  he 
suspected  her  of  a  secret  inclining  to  him — unknown  to  her 
mother. 

It  made  Swinton  savage  to  think  of  it ;  the  more  from  a  re- 
membrance of  another  and  older  rivalry,  in  which  the  same  man 
had  outstripped  him. 

To  be  beaten  in  a  love  intrigue,  backed  out  in  a  duel,  and 
finally  flogged  with  a  horsewhip,  are  three  distinct  humiliations, 
any  one  of  which  is  enough  to  make  a  man  savage. 

And  Swinton  was  so,  to  the  point  of  ferocity. 

That  Maynard  had  done  to  him  the  two  first,  he  knew — about 
the  last  he  was  not  so  certain.  But  he  conjectured  it  was  he  who 
had  handled  the  horsewhip.  This,  despite  the  obscurity  caused 
by  the  fog,  and  the  crape  masking  the  face  of  his  chastiser. 

The  voice  that  had  accosted  him  did  not  sound  like  Maynard's, 
but  it  also  may  have  been  masked. 

During  the  time  he  was  detained  indoors,  he  passed  a  portion 
of  it  in  thinking  of  revenge,  and  studying  how  he  was  to  obtain 
it 

Had  his  patron  seen  him,  as  he  sat  almost  continually  behind 
the  Venetian,  with  his  eyes  upon  Kossuth's  gate,  he  would  have 
given  him  credit  for  an  assiduous  attention  to  his  duties. 

But  he  was  not  so  honest  as  he  seemed.  Many  visitors  entered 
the  opposite  house — some  of  them  strange-looking  characters, 
whose  very  stride  spoke  of  revolution — entered  and  took  depar- 
ture, without  being  dogged. 

The  spy,  brooding  over  his  own  private  resentment,  had  no 
thoughts  to  spare  for  the  service  of  the  State.  Among  the  visitors 
of  Kossuth  he  was  desirous  of  identifying  Captain  Maynard. 

He  had  no  definite  idea  as  to  what  he  would  do  to  him ;  least 
of  all  that  of  giving  him  into  custody.  The  publicity  of  the  police 
court  would  have  been  fatal  to  him — as  damaging  to  his  employer 
and  patron.  It  might  cause  exposure  of  the  existence  of  that  spy 
system,  hitherto  unsuspected  in  England.  The  man,  who  had 
got  out  of  the  hansom  to  horsewhip  him,  must  have  known  that 
ne  was  being  followed,  and  wherefore.  It  would  never  do  for  the 
British  public  to  know  it. 

Swinton  had  no  intention  of  letting  them  know ;  nor  yet  Lord 


$i8  The  Child  Wife. 


,  and  his  employer.     To  the  latter,  calling  occasionally  of 

evenings,  he  told  the  same  story  as  that  imparted  to  Sir  Robert 
Cottrell — only  with  the  addition  that,  the  footpads  had  set  upon 
him  while  in  the  exercise  of  his  avocation  as  a  servant  of  the 
State  I 

The  generous  nobleman  was  shocked  at  his  mishap;  sympa- 
thized with  him,  but  thought  it  better  to  say  nothing  about  it ; 
hinted  at  an  increase  of  pay ;  and  advised  him,  since  he  could 
not  show  himself  during  daylight  on  the  streets,  to  take  the  air 
after  night — else  his  health  might  suffer  by  a  too  close  confine- 
ment. 

The  protege  accepted  this  advice ;  several  times  going  out  of 
an  evening,  and  betaking  himself  to  a  St.  John's  Wood  tavern, 
where  "  euchre"  was  played  in  the  parlour.  He  had  now  a  stake, 
and  could  enjoy  the  game. 

Twice,  returning  home  at  a  late  hour,  he  found  the  patron  in 
his  own  parlour,  quietly  conversing  with  his  wife.  His  lordship 
had  simply  called  up  to  inquire  after  his  health  ;  and  having  also 
some  instructions  to  communicate,  had  been  impatiently  awaiting 
his  return. 

The  patron  did  not  say  impatiently.  He  would  not  have  been 
so  impolite.  It  was  an  interpolation  proceeding  from  the  lips  of 
"Fan." 

And  Swinton  saw  all  this ;  and  much  more.  He  saw  new 
bracelets  glistening  upon  his  wife's  wrist,  diamond  drops  dangling 
from  her  ears,  and  a  costly  ring  sparkling  upon  her  finger — not 
there  before  ! 

He  saw  them,  without  inquiring  whence  they  had  come.  He 
cared  not;  or  if  he  did,  it  was  not  with  any  distaste  at  their  secret 
bestowal  Sir  Robert  Cottrell  saw  them,  with  more  displeasure 
than  he. 


CHAPTER  LXIX. 

THE    CABRIOLET. 

There  was  but  one  thing  for  which  Richard  Swinton  really  now 
cared.     He  liked  "  euchre  '' ;  he  would  have  relished  revenge 
but  there  was  a  thought  to  which   both   chese  enjoyments  had 
become  subservient. 

It  was  a  passion  rather  than  thought — its  object,  Julia  Gild- 
wood. 

He  had  grown  to  love  her. 

Such  a  man  might  be  supposed  incapable  of  having  this  passion. 
And  in  its  purity,  he  was  so. 

But  there  is  love  in  more  ways  than  one  ;  and  in  one  of  them 
the  ex-guardsman's  heart  had  got  engaged;  in  other  words,  he  had 
got  "  struck." 

It  was  love  in  its  lowest  sense ;  but  not  on  this  account 
weakest. 

In  Swinton  it  had  become  strong  enough  to  render  him  regard- 
less of  almost  everything  else.  Even  the  villainous  scheme, 
originally  contrived  for  robbing  Julia  Girdwood  of  her  fortune, 
had  become  secondary  to  a  desire  to  possess  himself  of  her 
person. 

The  former  was  not  lost  sight  of;  only  that  the  latter  had  risen 
mto  the  ascendant. 

On  this  account,  more  than  any  other,  did  he  curse  his  irksome 
indoor  life. 

It  occurred  just  after  that  pleasant  dinner-party,  when  he  sup- 
posed himself  to  have  made  an  impression.  It  hindered  him 
from  following  it  up.  Six  days  had  elapsed,  and  he  had  seen 
nothing  of  the  Girdwoods.  He  had  been  unable  to  call  upon 
them.  How  could  he  with  such  a  face,  even  by  explaining  the 
damage  done  to  it  ?  Either  way  the  thing  was  not  to  be  thought 
of;  and  he  had  to  leave  them  uncalled  upon. 


320  The  Child  Wife. 


He  fretted  meanwhile,  longing  to  look  once  more  upon  Julia 
Girdwood.  Cards  could  not  cure  him  of  it,  and  what  he  saw,  or 
suspected,  in  the  conduct  of  his  own  wife,  made  him  lean  all  the 
more  to  his  longings ;  since  the  more  did  he  stand  in  need  of 
distraction. 

He  had  other  thoughts  to  distress  him — fancies  they  might  be. 
So  long  without  seeing  her,  what  in  the  meantime  was  tran- 
spiring? A  beautiful  woman,  with  wealth,  she  could  not  be  going 
on  unnoticed  ?  Sure  to  be  beset  with  admirers  ;  some  of  them  to 
become  worshippers  ?  There  was  Lucas,  one  of  the  last  already ; 
but  Swinton  did  not  deign  to  think  of  him.  Others  might  make 
appearance  ;  and  among  them  one  who  would  answer  the  con- 
ditions required  by  her  mother  before  permitting  her  to  marry. 

How  could  he  tell  but  that  a  real  lord  had  already  trumped  up 
on  the  tapis ;  and  was  at  that  moment  kneeling  upon  one  of  the 
Clarendon  carpets,  by  the  selvedge  of  her  silken  skirt  ? 

Or  if  not  a  lord,  might  not  Maynard  be  there,  unknown  to  the 
mother  ? 

Swinton  had  this  last  fancy ;  and  it  was  the  least  pleasant  of 
all. 

It  was  in  his  mind  every  day,  as  he  sat  by  the  window,  waiting 
till  the  skin  of  his  face  should  be  restored  to  its  natural  colour. 

And  when  this  at  length  came  to  pass,  he  lost  not  another  day, 
but  proceeded  to  call  upon  the  Girdwoods. 

He  went  in  tip-top  style.  His  spy  pay,  drawn  from  such  a 
generous  patron,  afforded  it  No  swell  upon  the  streets  was 
dressed  in  better  fashion ;  for  he  wore  a  Poole  coat,  Melnotte 
boots,  and  a  hat  of  Christy's  make. 

He  did  not  walk,  as  on  his  first  call  at  the  Clarendon. 

He  was  transported  thither  in  a  cabriolet,  with  a  high-stepping 
horse  between  the  shafts,  and  a  top-boot  tiger  on  the  stand 
board. 

Mrs.  Girdwood's  apartments  in  the  aristocratic  hotel  com- 
manded a  window  fronting  upon  Bond  Street.  He  knew  that  his 
turn-out  would  be  seen. 

All  these  steps  had  been  taken,  with  a  view  to  carrying  on  the 
cheat. 

And  the  cabriolet  had  been  chosen  for  a  special  purpose.     It 


The  Cabriolet.  321 


was  the  style  of  vehicle  in  vogue  among  distinguished  swells — 
notably  young  noblemen.  They  were  not  often  seen  upon  the 
streets;  and  when  seen  attracting  attention,  as  they  should — being 
the  handsomest  thing  upon  wheels. 

During  one  of  her  moments  of  enthusiasm,  he  had  heard  Julia 
Gird  wood  say  she  should  like  to  have  a  ride  in  one  of  them.  He 
was  just  the  man  to  drive  her :  for  while  a  guardsman  he  had 
often  handled  the  ribbons  of  a  drag  ;  and  was  esteemed  one  of 
the  best  "  whips  "  of  his  time. 

If  he  could  only  coax  Julia  Gird  wood  into  his  cabriolet — of 
cc  urse  also  her  mother  to  permit  it — what  an  advantage  it  would 
give  him  !  An  exhibition  of  his  skill ;  the  opportunity  of  a  tete- 
a-tete  unrestrained — a  chance  he  had  not  yet  had;  these,  with 
other  contingencies,  might  tend  to  advance  him  in  her  estimation. 

It  was  a  delicate  proposal  to  make.  It. would  have  been  a 
daring  one,  but  for  the  speech  he  had  heard  suggesting  it.  On 
the  strength  of  this  he  could  introduce  the  subject,  without  fear 
of  offending. 

She  might  go.  He  knew  she  was  a  young  lady  fond  of  peculiar 
experiences,  and  not  afraid  of  social  criticism.  She  had  never 
submitted  to  its  tyranny.     In  this  she  was  truly  American. 

He  believed  she  would  go,  or  consent  to  it ;  and  it  would  be 
simply  a  question  of  permission  from  the  mother. 

And  after  their  last  friendly  interview,  he  believed  that  Mrs. 
Girdwood  would  give  it. 

Backed  by  such  belief,  there  could  be  no  harm  in  trying  ;  and 
for  this  the  cabriolet  had  been  chartered. 

Buoyant  of  hope,  Mr.  Swinton  sprang  out  of  the  vehicle,  tossed 
the  reins  to  his  tiger,  and  stepped  over  the  threshold  of  the 
Clarendon. 


CHAPTER  LXX. 

A   SKILFUL   DRIVER. 

M  Mrs.  Girdwood  at  home  ?  "  he  asked,  addressing  himself  to 
the  janitor  of  the  hotel. 

"  I'll  see,  sir,"  answered  the  man,  making  him  an  obsequious 
bow,  and  hurrying  away  to  the  office. 

The  hall-keeper  remembered  the  gent,  who  carried  such  good 
cigars,  and  was  so  liberal  with  them.  He  had  been  pleased  with 
lils  appearance  then.  He  liked  it  better  now  in  a  new  coat,  un- 
questionably a  Poole,  with  pants,  boots,  and  tile  to  correspond* 
Besides,  he  had  glanced  through  the  glass-door,  and  seen  the 
cabriolet  with  its  top-booted  tiger.  To  the  owners  of  such  he  was 
instinctively  polite;  but  more  so  to  Mr.  Swinton,  remembering 
his  choice  cigars. 

The  ex-guardsman  waited  for  his  return  with  some  anxiety. 
The  cabriolet,  tiger  included,  had  cost  him  a  "  sov."  It  would 
be  awkward,  if  the  twenty  shillings  had  been  laid  out  in  vain. 

Pie  was  relieved  at  the  return  of  the  Clarendon  Cerberus. 

"  Mrs.  Girdwood  and  fambly  are  in,  sir.  Shall  I  send  up  your 
card?" 

"  Please  do." 

And  Swinton,  drawing  out  the  bit  of  paste-board,  handed  it 
over  to  the  official. 

A  servant  more  active  upon  his  limbs  carried  it  upstairs. 

"  Nice  lady,  sir,  Mrs.  Girdwood  ?  "  remarked  the  hall-keeper, 
by  way  of  "  laying  pipe  "  for  a  perquisite.  "  Nice  fambly  all  on 
'em  ;  'specially  that  young  lady." 

"  Which  of  them  ?  "  asked  Swinton,  thinking  it  no  harm  to 
strengthen  his  friendship  with  the  official.     "  There  are  two." 

11  Well,  both  on  'em  for  that  matter,  sir.  They  be  both  wonder- 
ful nice  cieeturs. 

"  Ah  !  true.  But  you've  expressed  a  preference.  Now  which 
may  I  ask,  is  the  one  you  refer  to  as  specially  nice  ?  * 


A  Skilful  Driver.  323 


The  janitor  was  puzzled.  He  did  not  know  which  it  would  be 
most  agreeable  to  the  gentleman  to  hear  praised. 

A  compromise  suggested  itself. 

"  Well,  sir ;  the  fair  'un's  a  remarkable  nice  young  lady.  She's 
got  sich  a  sweet  temper,  an's  dreadfully  good-lookin',  too.  But, 
sir,  if  it  come  to  a  question  of  beauty,  I  shed  say — in  course  I 
ain't  much  of  a  judge— but  I  shed  say  the  dark  'un's  a  splerdi- 
ferous  creetur  ! " 

The  janitor's  verdict  left  his  judgment  still  somewhat  obscure. 
But  Mr.  Swinton  had  no  time  to  reflect  upon  it.  Mrs.  Girdwood, 
not  caring  for  expense,  occupied  a  suite  of  apartments  on  the  first 
floor ;  and  the  messenger  soon  returned. 

He  brought  the  pleasing  intelligence,  that  the  gentleman  was  to 
be  "shown  up." 

There  was  an  empressement  in  the  servant's  manner,  that  told  the 
visitor  he  would  be  made  welcome. 

And  he  was ;  Mrs.  Girdwood  springing  up  from  her  seat,  and 
rushing  to  the  door  to  receive  him. 

"  My  lord  !  Mr.  Swinton,  I  beg  your  pardon.  A  whole  week, 
and  you've  not  been  near  us  !  We  were  all  wondering  what  had 
become  of  you.  The  girls  here,  had  begins,  to  think — shall  I  say 
it,  girls  ?  " 

Both  Julia  and  Cornelia  loosed  a  little  perplexed.  Neither 
was  aware  of  what  she  had  "  begun  to  think  "  about  the  absence 
of  Mr.  Swinton. 

"  Aw — ao  tell  me,  by  all  means  !"  urged  he,  appealing  to  Mrs. 
Girdwood  "  I'm  vewy  much  intewested  to  know.  It's  so  kind 
of  the  young  ladies  to  think  of  me  at  all — a  paw  fawlora 
\iichelor ! " 

I  shall  tell  you  then,  Mr.  Swinton,  if  you  promise  not  to  be 
offended ! r 

"  Offended  !     Impawsible  I n 

"  Well,  then,"  continued  the  widow,  without  thinking  more  of 
the  permission  asked  of  "her  girls,"  "we  thought  that  some 
terrible  affair  had  happened.  Excuse  me  for  calling  it  terrible. 
it  would  only  be  so  to  your  numerous  lady  friends." 

"What,  pway?" 

"  That  you'd  been  getting  married  i " 


324  The  Child  Wife. 

"  Mawied  !    To  whom  ?  » 

"  Oh,  sir  ;  you  need  scarcely  ask.  Of  course  to  the  Honour- 
able and  very  beautiful  Miss  Courtney." 

Swinton  smiled.  It  was  a  smile  somewhat  resembling  a  grin. 
A  tenible  affair  had  happened  to  him  ;  but  not  quite  so  bad  as 
being  married  to  the  Honourable  Geraldine  Courtney — otherwise 
Kate  the  coper  ! 

"Aw.  ladies  !  "  he  replied,  in  a  self-deprecating  tone,  "  you  do 
me  too  much  honaw.  I  am  far  from  being  a  favowite  with  the 
lady  in  question.     We  are  no  gweat  fwiends,  I  ashaw  you." 

The  assurance  seemed  gratifying  to  Mrs.  Gird  wood,  and  a  little 
to  Julia.  Cornelia  did  not  appear  to  care  for  it,  one  way  or  the 
other. 

Fact  is,"  continued  Swinton,  following  up  the  advantage 
gained  by  the  incidental  allusion  to  the  Honourable  Geraldine, 
"  I've  just  this  moment  come  from  qua'lling  with  her.  She  wished 
me  to  take  her  out  faw  a  dwive.     I  wefused." 

11  Refused  ! "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Girdwood,  in  surprise.  "  Oh  ! 
Mr.  Swinton  !  Refused  such  a  beautiful  lady.  So  accomplished 
too  !     How  could  you  ?  " 

"Well,  madam,  as  I've  told  you,  Miss  Courtney  and  I  are 
not  bwother  and  sister.  Besides,  I  dwove  her  out  yesterday,  and 
that  should  pwead  my  excuse.  To-day  I  ordered  my  horse — 
my  best  one — just  faw  a  special  purpose.  I  hope  I  shall  not  be 
disappointed?" 

"  What  purpose  ?"  inquired  Mrs.  Girdwood,  her  visitor's  remark 
having  suggested  the  question.     "  Excuse  me,  sir,  for  asking." 

"  I  hope,  madam,  yaw  will  excuse  me  for  telling  yaw.  In  a 
convex  sation  that  occurred  some  days  ago,  yaw  daughter  ex- 
pressed a  wish  to  take  a  wide  in  one  of  our  English  cabwiolets. 
Am  I  wight,  Miss  Girdwood  ?  " 

"True,"  assented  Julia,  "  I  did.  I  have  a  curiosity  to  be  driven 
behind  one  of  those  high- stepping  steeds  1 " 

"  If  yaw  will  do  me  the  fayvaw  to  look  out  of  this  window,  I 
think  yaw  will  see  one  that  answers  the  descwiption." 

Julia  glided  up  to  the  window ;  her  mother  going  along  with 
her.     Miss  Inskip  did  not  stir  from  her  seat. 

Sainton's  turn-out  was  seen  upon  the  street  below :  t  cabriolet 


A  Skilful  Driver.  325 

with  a  coat  of  arms  upon  the  panel — a  splendid  horse  between  the 
shafts,  pawing  the  pavement,  chafing  his  bit,  flinging  the  froth  over 
his  shining  counter,  and  held  in  place  by  a  miniature  groom  in 
top-boots  and  buckskins. 

"  What  a  pretty  equipage  ! "  exclaimed  Julia.  "  I'm  sure  it 
must  be  pleasant  to  ride  in  ?  " 

"  Miss  Girdwood  ;  if  yaw  will  do  me  the  honaw         " 

Julia  turned  to  her  mother,  with  a  glance  that  said : 

"May  I?" 

"  You  may,"  was  the  look  given  back  by  Mrs.  Girdwood. 

How  could  she  refuse?  Had  not  Mr.  Swinton  denied  the 
Honourable  Geraldine,  and  given  the  preference  to  her  daughter  ? 
An  airing  would  do  her  good.  It  could  do  her  no  harm,  in  the 
company  of  a  lord.     She  was  free  to  take  it. 

Mrs.  Girdwood  signified  her  consent;  and  Julia  hastened  to 
dress  for  the  drive. 

There  was  frost  in  the  air ;  and  she  came  back  from  her  room 
enveloped  in  costly  furs. 

It  was  a  cloak  of  sea-otter,  coquettishly  trimmed,  and  becoming 
to  her  dark  complexion.     She  looked  superb  in  it. 

Swinton  thought  so,  as  with  hopeful  heart,  but  trembling  hand, 
he  assisted  her  into  the  cabriolet ! 

The  drive  was  round  the  Park,  into  Kensington  Gardens,  and 
then  back  to  the  Clarendon. 

But  not  till  after  Mr.  Swinton  had  passed  along  Park  Lane,  and 
stopped  at  the  door  of  a  great  nobleman's  residence. 

"  It  is  very  wude  of  me,  Miss  Girdwood,"  said  he,  "  but  I  have 
a  call  to  make  on  his  lawdship  by  appointment ;  and  I  hope  yaw 
will  kindly  excuse  me?" 

"  By  all  means,"  said  Julia,  delighted  with  her  accomplished 
cavalier,  who  had  s*hown  himself  such  a  skilful  driver. 

"One  moment — I  shall  not  allow  his  lordship  to  detain  me 
more  than  a  moment" 

And  Swinton  sprang  out ;  surrendering  the  reins  to  his  groom, 
already  at  the  horse's  head. 

He  was  true  to  his  promise.  In  a  short  time  he  returned — so 
short,  that  his  lordship  could  scarce  have  done  more  than  bid  him 
the  time  of  day, 

I 


326  The  Child  Wife. 


In  truth  he  had  not  seen  the  nobleman,  nor  intended  seeing 
him  either.  It  was  a  counterfeit  call ;  and  went  no  further  than 
a  word  or  two  exchanged  with  the  house  steward  inside  the  halL 

But  he  did  not  tell  this  to  his  fair  companion  in  the  cabriolet  j 
and  she  was  driven  back  into  Bond  Street,  and  landed  triumph- 
antly at  the  Clarendon,  under  the  eyes  of  her  mother,  admiring 
her  from  the  window. 

When  that  lady  had  an  account  of  the  drive  in  general,  but 
more  especially  of  the  call  that  had  been  made,  her  respect  for 
Mr.  S  win  ton  was  still  further  increased.  He  was  surely  the  thing 
sought  for  ! 

And  Julia  began  to  think  so  too. 


CHAPTER  LXXL 

A  QUIET   HOTEL. 

By  the  drive  Swinton  believed  himself  to  have  achieved  a  grand 
success ;  and  he  determined  to  lose  no  time  in  following  it  up. 

The  ground  seemed  now  well  under  him — enough  to  support 
him  in  making  the  proposal  so  long  deferred. 

And  in  less  than  three  days  from  that  time,  he  called  at  the 
Clarendon,  and  made  it 

Favoured  by  an  opportunity  in  which  he  found  her  alone,  it 
was  done  direct  to  the  young  lady  herself. 

But  the  answer  was  not  direct  —nor  definite  in  any  way.  It 
was  neither  a  "  yes  "  nor  a  "  no."  He  was  simply  referred  to  her 
mother. 

The  equivocation  was  not  exactly  to  his  taste.  It  certainly 
seemed  strange  enough.  Still,  though  a  little  chagrined,  he  was 
not  altogether  discomforted  by  it ;  for  how  could  he  anticipate 
refusal  in  the  quarter  to  which  he  had  been  referred  ? 

Obedient  to  the  permission  given  him,  he  waited  upon  Gird- 
wood  nitre  ;  and  to  her  repeated  the  proposal  with  all  the  eloquent 
advocacy  he  could  command. 

If  the  daughter's  answer  had  not  been  definite,  that  of  the 
mother  was;  and  to  a  degree  that  placed  Mr.  Swinton  in  a 
dilemma. 

u  Sir ! *  said  she,  "  we  feel  very  much  honoured — both  myself 
and  daughter.  But  your  lordship  will  excuse  me  for  pointing  out 
to  you,  that,  in  making  this  proposal,  you  appear  to  have  forgotten 
something." 

"  Pway  what,  madam,  may  I  ask  ?  w 

"  Your  lordship  has  not  made  it  in  your  own  name ;  nor  have 
you  yet  told  us  your  title.  Until  that  is  done,  your  lordship  will 
see,  how  absurd  it  would  be  for  either  my  daughter,  or  myself,  to 
give  you  a  decisive  answer.     We  cannot  1 " 


328  The  Child  Wife. 


Mrs.  Gird  wood  did  not  speak  either  harshly,  or  satirically.  Ob 
the  contrary,  she  unburdened  herself  in  the  most  conciliatory 
tone—  in  fear  of  offending  his  lordship,  and  causing  him  to  declare 

"off:" 

She  was  but  too  anxious  to  secure  him — that  is,  supposing  him 
to  be  a  lord.  Had  she  known  that  he  was  not,  her  answer  would 
have  been  delivered  in  very  different  terms  ;  and  the  acquaintance 
between  her  and  Mr.  Swinton  would  have  ended,  with  as  little 
ceremony  as  it  had  begun. 

It  seemed  on  the  edge  of  such  termination,  as  the  pseudo-lord, 
stammering  in  hifs  speech,,  endeavoured  to  make  rejoinder. 

And  not  much  farther  off,  when  this  was  made,  and  the  old 
excuse  still  pleaded  for  preserving  that  inexplicable  incognito  I 

Swinton  was  in  truth  taken  by  surprise ;  and  scarce  knew  what 
to  say. 

But  the  American  mother  did ;  and  in  plain  terms  told  him, 
that,  until  the  title  was  declared,  she  must  decline  the  proffered 
honour  of  having  him  for  a  son-in-law  ! 

When  it  was  made  known,  he  might  expect  a  more  categorical 
answer. 

Her  tone  was  not  such  as  to  make  him  despair.  On  the  con- 
trary, it  clearly  indicated  that  the  answer  would  be  favourable, 
provided  the  conditions  were  fulfilled. 

But  then,  this  was  sufficient  for  despair.  How  was  he  to  make 
her  believe  in  his  having  a  title? 

"  By  possessing  it ! "  he  said  to  himself,  as,  after  the  fruitless 
interview,  he  strode  off  from  the  Clarendon  Hotel.  "  By  possess- 
ing it,"  he  repeated.  "  And,  by  heavens  1  I  shall  possess  it,  as 
sure  as  my  name's  Swinton  !  " 

Farther  on  he  reflected : 

"  Yes  !  that's  the  way,  I've  got  the  old  roue  'in  my  power ! 
Only  needs  one  step  more  to  secure  him.  And  he  shall  give  me 
whatever  I  ask — oven  to  a  title  !  " 

"  I  know  he  can't  make  me  a  lord  ;  but  he  can  a  knight  or  a 
baronet.  It  would  be  all  the  same  to  her ;  and  with  '  Sir  '  to  my 
name,  she  will  no  longer  deny  rne.  With  that,  I  shall  get  Julia 
Girdwood  and  her  two  hundred  thousand  pounds  I " 

"  By  heaven  !  I  care  more  for  her,  than  her  money.     The  girl 


A   Quiet  Hotel. 


has  got  into  my  heart     I  shall  go  mad,  if  I  fail  to  get  her  into 

my  arms ! " 

Thus  wildly  reflecting,  he  continued  to  traverse  the  streets : 
down  Bond  Street,  along  Piccadilly,  into  the  neighbourhood  oi 
Leicester  Square. 

As  if  the  devil  had  turned  up  to  aid  him  in  his  evil  designs,  an 
episode  occurred  in  exact  consonance  with  them.  It  seemed  an 
accident — though  who  could  telJ  mat  it  was  one ;  since  it  might 
have  been  prearranged  ? 

He  was  standing  by  the  lamp-post,  in  the  centre  of  the  Picca- 
dilly Circus,  when  a  cab  drove  past,  containing  two  fares — a  lady 
and  gentleman. 

Both  were  keeping  their  faces  well  bacV  Trom  the  window ;  the 
lady's  under  a  thick  veil ;  while  that  of  the  gentleman  was 
screened  by  a  copy  of  the  Times  newspaper  held  cunningly  in 
hand,  as  if  he  was  intensely  interested  in  the  perusal  of  some 
thundering  leader  ! 

In  spite  of  this,  Swinton  recognised  the  occupants  of  the  cab — 
both  of  them.  The  lady  was  his  own  wife ;  the  gentleman  his 
noble  patron  of  Park  Lane  ! 

The  cab  passed  him,  without  any  attempt  on  his  part  to  stay  it 
He  only  followed,  silently,  and  at  a  quick  pace. 

It  turned  down  the  Haymarket,  and  drew  up  by  the  door  of 
one  of  those  quiet  hotels,  known  only  to  those  light  travellers  who 
journey  without  being  encumbered  with  luggage. 

The  gentleman  got  out ;  the  lady  after ;  and  both  glided  in 
through  a  door,  that  stood  hospitably  open  to  receive  them. 

The  cabman,  whose  fare  had  been  paid  in  advance,  drove 
immediately  away. 

"  Enough  ! "  muttered  Swinton,  with  a  diabolical  grin  upon  his 
countenance.     "  That  will  do.     And  now  for  a  witness  to  make 

good  my  word  in  a  court  of Ha  !  ha  1  ha  !     It  will  never 

come  to  that." 

Lest  it  should,  he  hastened  to  procure  the  witness.  He  was 
just  in  the  neighbourhood  to  make  such  a  thing  easy.  He  knew 
Leicester  Square,  its  every  place  and  purlieu ;  and  among  others 
one  where  he  could  pitch  upon  a  "pal." 

t*  less  than  fifteen  minutes'  time,  he  found  one ;  and  in  fifteen 


3JO  Ttu  Child  Wife. 


more,  the  two  might  have  been  seen  standing  at  the  corner  of 

Street,  apparently  discussing  of  some  celestial  phenomenon 

that  absorbed  the  whole  of  their  attention  ! 

They  had  enough  left  to  give  to  a  lady  and  gentleman,  who 
shortly  after  came  out  of  the  "  quiet  hotel  " — the  lady  first,  the 
gentleman  at  an  interval  behind  her. 

They  did  not  discover  themselves  to  the  lady,  who  seemed  to 
pass  on  without  observing  them. 

But  as  the  gentleman  went  skulking  by,  both  turned*' their 
faces  towards  him. 

He,  too,  looked  as  if  he  did  not  see  them ;  but  the  start  given, 
and  the  increased  speed  at  which  he  hurried  on  out  of  sight,  told 
that  he  had  recognised  at  least  one  of  them,  with  a  distinctness 
that  caused  him  to  totter  in  his  steps  ! 

The  abused  husband  made  no  movement  to  follow  him.  So 
far  he  was  safe  ;  and  in  the  belief  that  he — or  she  at  least — had 
escaped  recognition,  he  walked  leisurely  along  Piccadilly,  con- 
gratulating himself  on  his  bonne  fortune  1 

He  would  have  been  less  jubilant,  could  he  have  heard  the 
muttered  words  of  his  protege' ,  after  the  latter  had  parted  from 
his  "  pal." 

"  I've  got  it  right  now,"  said  he.  "  Knighthood  for  Richard 
Swinton,  or  a  divorce  from  his  wife,  with  no  end  of  damages  I 
God  bless  the  dear  Fan,  for  playing  so  handsomely  into  my  hand  1 
God  bless  her !  * 

And  with  this  infamy  on  his  lips,  the  ci-devant  guardsman  flung 
himself  into  a  hansom  cab,  and  hastened  home  to  St  Jjhn'a 
Wood. 


CHAPTER   LXXII. 

WANTED A   MASTER! 

Having  changed  from  soldier  to  author,  Maynard  was  not  idle  it 
his  new  avocation. 

Book  after  book  came  from  his  facile  pen ;  each  adding  to  the 
reputation  achieved  by  his  first  essay  in  the  field  of  literature. 

A  few  of  the  younger  spirits  of  the  press — that  few  addicti 
ttrare  verbis  nullius  ??iagistri — at  once  boldly  pronounced  in  their 
favour  :  calling  them  works  of  genius. 

But  the  older  hands,  who  constitute  the  members  of  the 
"  Mutual  Admiration  Society  " — those  disappointed  aspirants,  who 
in  all  ages  and  countries  assume  the  criticism  of  art  and  author- 
ship— could  see  in  Maynard's  writings  only  "  sensation. M 

Drawing  their  inspiration  from  envy,  and  an  influence  not  less 
mean — from  that  magister,  the  leading  journal,  whose  very  nod 
was  trembling  to  them — they  endeavoured  to  give  satisfaction  to 
the  despot  of  the  press,  by  depreciating  the  efforts  of  the  young 
author. 

They  adopted  two  different  modes  of  procedure.  Some  of 
them  said  nothing.  These  were  the  wiser  ones ;  since  the  silence 
of  the  critic  is  his  most  eloquent  condemnation.  They  were 
wiser,  too,  in  that  their  words  were  in  no  danger  of  contradiction. 
Tie  others  spoke,  but  sneeringly  and  with  contempt  They  found 
vent  for  their  spleen  by  employing  the  terms  "melodrama,"  "  blue- 
fire,"  and  a  host  of  hackneyed  phrases,  that,  like  the  modem 
slang  "  sensational,"  may  be  conveniently  applied  to  the  most 
classic  conceptions  of  the  author. 

How  many  of  the  best  works  of  Byron,  Shakespeare,  and  Scott, 
would  escape  the  M  sensation  "  category  ? 

They  could  not  deny  that  Maynard's  writings  had  attained  a 
certain  degree  of  popularity.     This  had  been  achieved  without 


332  The  Child  Wife. 


their  aid.  But  it  was  only  evidence  of  the  corrupted  taste  of  the 
age. 

When  was  there  an  age,  without  this  corrupted  taste? 

His  writings  would  not  live.     Of  that  they  were  certain  I 

They  have  lived  ever  since ;  and  sold  too,  to  the  making  of 
some  half-dozen  fortunes — if  not  for  himself,  for  those  upon  whom 
he  somewhat  unwarily  bestowed  them. 

And  they  promise  to  abide  upon  the  bookshelves  a  little  longer ; 
perhaps  not  with  any  grand  glory — but  certainly  not  with  any 
great  accumulation  of  dust. 

And  the  day  may  come,  when  these  same  critics  may  be  dead, 
and  the  written  thoughts  of  Mr.  Maynard  be  no  longer  deemed 
merely  sensations. 

He  was  not  thinking  of  this  while  writing  them.  He  was  but 
pursuing  a  track,  upon  which  the  chances  of  life  had  thrown  him. 

Nor  was  it  to  him  the  most  agreeable.  After  a  youth  spent  m 
vigorous  personal  exertion — some  of  it  in  the  pursuit  of  stirring 
adventure — the  tranquil  atmosphere  of  the  studio  was  little  to  his 
taste.  He  endured  it  under  the  belief,  that  it  was  only  to  be  an 
episode. 

Any  new  path,  promising  adventure,  would  have  tempted  him 
from  his  chair,  and  caused  him  to  fling  his  pen  into  the  fire. 

None  offered  ;  and  he  kept  on  writing — writing — and  thinking 
of  Blanche  Vernon. 

And  of  her  he  thought  unhappily ;  for  he  dared  not  write  to 
her.  That  was  a  liberty  denied  him ;  not  only  from  its  danger, 
but  his  own  delicate  sense  of  honour. 

It  would  have  been  denied  him,  too,  from  his  not  knowing  her 
address.  He  had  heard  that  Sir  George  Vernon  had  gone  once 
more  abroad — his  daughter  along  with  him.  Whither,  he  had 
not  heard ;  nor  did  he  make  much  effort  to  ascertain.  Enough 
for  him  that,  abroad  or  at  home,  he  would  be  equally  excluded 
from  the  society  of  that  young  creature,  whose  image  was  scarce 
ever  absent  from  his  thoughts. 

There  were  times,  when  it  was  painfully  present ;  and  he  sought 
abstraction  by  a  vigorous  exercise  of  his  pen. 

At  such  times  he  longed  once  more  to  take  up  the  sword  as  a 
more  potent  consoler ;  but  no  opportunity  seemed  to  offer. 


Wanted — a  Master  I  333 

* 

One  night  he  was  reflecting  upon  this — thinking  of  some  fili- 
bustering expedition  into  which  he  might  fling  himself — when  a 
knock  came  to  his  door,  as  of  some  spirit  invoked  by  his  wishes. 

"  Come  in  !  " 

It  was  Roseveldt  who  answered  the  summons. 

The  Count  had  become  a  resident  of  London — an  idler  upon 
town — for  want  of  congenial  employment  elsewhere. 

Some  fragment  of  his  fortune  still  remaining,  enabled  him  to 
live  the  life  of  a  fla?ieur,  while  his  title  of  nobility  gave  him  the 
intree  of  many  a  good  door. 

But,  like  Maynard,  he  too  was  pining  for  an  active  life,  and 
disgusted  to  look  daily  upon  his  sword,  rusting  ingloriously  in  its 
sheath! 

By  the  mode  in  which  he  made  entry,  something  whispered 
Maynard,  that  the  time  had  come  when  both  were  to  be  released 
from  their  irksome  inaction.  The  Count  was  flurried,  excited, 
tugging  at  his  moustache,  as  if  he  intended  tearing  it  away  from 
his  lip  ! 

"  What  is  it,  my  dear  Roseveldt  ?  " 

"  Don't  you  smell  gunpowder  ?  * 

"No." 

"  There's  some  being  burnt  by  this  time." 

"Where?" 

"In  Milan.  The  revolution's  broke  out  there.  But  I've 'no 
time  to  talk  to  you.  Kossuth  has  sent  me  for  you  post-haste. 
He  wants  you  to  come  at  once.     Are  you  ready?" 

"You're  always  in  such  haste,  my  dear  Count.  But  when 
Kossuth  commands,  you  know  my  answer.  I'm  ready.  It  only 
needs  to  put  on  my  hat." 

"  On  with  it  then,  and  come  along  with  me  ! " 

From  Portman  Square  to  St.  John's  Wood  is  but  a  step ;  and 
the  two  were  soon  traversing  the  somewhat  crooked  causeway  of 
South  Bank. 

When  close  to  Kossuth's  residence  they  passed  a  man  who  stood, 
watch  in  hand,  under  a  street  lamp — as  if  trying  to  ascertain  the 
time  of  night. 

They  knew  he  was  shamming,  but  said  nothing ;  and  went  on, 
scon  after  entering  the  house, 


334  The  c,llld  WlJe> 


Kossuth  was  within ;  and  along  with  him  several  distinguished 
Hungarians. 

"  Captain  Maynard  I "  he  exclaimed,  stepping  out  of  the  circle, 
and  saluting  his  new-come  guest. 

Then  taking  him  aside,  he  said  : 

"  Look  at  this  ! " 

While  speaking,  he  had  placed  a  slip  of  paper  in  Maynard'i 
hands.     It  was  written  in  cipher. 

°  A  telegram  !  "  muttered  the  latter,  seeing  the  hieroglyphics. 

"  Yes,"  said  Kossuth,  proceeding  to  translate  and  explain  them. 
"  The  revolution  has  broken  out  in  Milan.  It  is  a  rash  affair, 
and,  I  fear,  will  end  in  defeat — perhaps  ruin.  Mazzirii  has  done  it, 
in  direct  opposition  to  my  wishes  and  judgment.  Mazzini  is  too 
sanguine.  So  are  Turr  and  the  others.  They  count  on  the 
Hungarian  regiments  stationed  there,  with  the  influence  of  my 
aame  among  them.  Giuseppe  has  taken  a  liberty  with  it,  by 
using  an  old  proclamation  of  mine,  addressed  to  those  regiments, 
while  I  was  still  prisoner  at  Kutayah.  He  has  put  it  forth  at 
Milan,  only  altering  the  date.  I  wouldn't  so  much  blame  him  for 
that,  if  I  didn't  believe  it  to  be  sheer  madness.  With  so  many 
Austrians  in  the  garrison  at  Milan — above  all,  those  hireling  Bohe- 
mian regiments — I  don't  think  there's  a  chance  of  our  success." 

"What  6.0 you  intend  doing,  Governor?" 

"As  to  that,  I  have  no  choice.  The  game's  begun,  and  I  must 
take  part  in  it,  co&te  que  coute.  This  telegram  is  from  my  brave 
Turr,  and  he  thinks  there's  a  hope.  Whether  or  no,  it  will  be 
necessary  for  me  to  go  to  them." 

"  You  are  going  then  ?  " 

"At  once— if  I  can  get  there.  Therein,  my  dear  sir,  lies  the 
difficulty.  It  is  for  that  I  have  taken  the  liberty  of  sending  for 
you," 

"  No  liberty,  Governor.     What  can  I  do  for  you  ?  " 

"  Thanks,  dear  captain !  I  shall  waste  no  words,  but  say  at 
once  what  I  want  with  you.  The  only  way  for  me  to  get  to  Milan 
Is  through  the  territory  of  France.  I  might  go  round  by  the 
Mediterranean  ;  but  that  would  take  time.  I  should  be  too  late. 
Across  France  then  must  I  go,  or  not  at  all." 

"  And  what  is  to  hinder  you  from  travelling  through   France?" 


Wanted— a  Master  I  335 

"Louis  Napoleon." 

"  True,  he  would — I  need  not  have  asked  the  question." 

"  He'd  be  sure  to  place  me  under  arrest,  and  keep  me  so,  as  Ion;. 
as  my  liberty  is  deemed  dangerous  to  the  crowned  conspirators. 
He  has  become  their  most  trusted  tipstaff  and  detective.  Thero*i 
not  one  of  his  sergents-de-vilh  who  has  not  got  my  portrait  in  Lis 
pocket.  The  only  chance  left  me,  to  run  the  gauntlet  thrjj^ 
France,  is  to  travel  in  disguise.     It  is  for  that  I  want  _>'##." 

'■'  How  can  I  assist  you,  my  dear  Governor  ?  " 

"  By  making  me  your  servant — your  valet  du  voyage" 

Maynard  could  not  help  smiling  at  the  idea.  The  *nri  who 
had  held  mastery  over  a  whole  nation,  who  had  created  an  ^rmy 
of  two  hundred  thousand  men,  who  had  caused  trembhnr,  through, 
out  the  thrones  of  Europe — that  man  to  be  obseq j'.ously  waiting 
upon  him,  brushing  his  coat,  handing  him  his  hat.  ?.nd  packing 
his  portmanteau ! 

"  Before  you  make  answer,"  continued  the  ex  Dictator  of  Hun- 
gary, ulet  me  tell  you  all.  If  taken  in  Franc**,  you  will  have  to 
share  my  prison;  if  upon  Austrian  territorv,  your  neck,  like  my 
own,  will  be  in  danger  of  a  halter.     Now,  s'j,  do  you  consent?" 

It  was  some  seconds  before  Maynard  u>ade  reply  ;  though  it 
was  not  the  halter  that  hindered  him.  He  was  thinking  of  many 
other  things — among  thern  Blanche  Venuon. 

Perhaps  but  for  the  reminiscence  jf  that  scene  under  the 
deodara,  and  its  results,  he  might  have  hesitated  longer — have 
even  turned  recreant  to  the  cause  of  revolutionary  liberty ! 

Its  memory  but  stimulated  him  to  fresh  efforts  for  freedom,  and 
without  staying  longer,  he  simply  s.iid  : 

"  I  consent ! " 


CHAPTER  LXXIII. 

PURCHASING  A   PASSPORT. 

TwENTY-FOttK  hours  must  elapse  before  Kossuth  and  his  com. 
panion — or  rather  Captain  Maynard  and  his  servant — could  se* 
out  on  their  perilous  expedition. 

It  was  of  rigorous  necessity  that  a  passport  should  be  obtained — 
either  from  the  consular  agent  of  France,  or  the  British  Foreign 
Office  ;  and  for  this  purpose  daylight  would  be  needed — in  other 
words,  it  could  not  be  had  befoie  the  next  day. 

Kossuth  chafed  at  the  delay ;  and  so,  too,  his  new  master — 
cursing,  not  for  the  first  time,  the  vile  system  of  passports. 

Little  thought  either,  that  this  delay  was  a  fortunate  thing  for 
them — a  circumstance  to  which  they  were  perhaps  indebted  for 
the  saving  of  their  lives  ! 

Maynard  preferred  taking  out  the  passport  from  the  French 
consular  agency.  This,  on  account  of  less  trouble  and  greater 
despatch,  the  British  Foreign  Office,  in  true  red  tape  style,  re- 
quiring the  applicant  to  be  known /  Several  days  are  often 
consumed  before  John  Bull,  going  abroad,  can  coax  his  minister 
to  grant  him  the  scrap  of  paper  necessary  to  his  protection  ! 

He  must  be  first  endorsed,  by  a  banker,  clergyman,  or  some 
other  of  the  noted  respectabilities  of  the  land  !  John's  master  don't 
encourage  vagabondage. 

The  French  passport  agent  is  more  accommodating.  The 
meagre  emolument  of  his  office  makes  the  cash  perquisite  a 
consideration.     For  this  reason  the  service  is  readily  rendered. 

Maynard,  however,  did  not  obtain  the  document  without  some 
difficulty.  There  was  the  question  of  his  servant,  who  ought  to 
have  been  there  along  with  him  1 

The  flunkey  must  present  himself  in  propria  persona  /  in  order 
that  his  description  should  be  correctly  given  upon  the  passport 

336 


Purchasing  a  Passport.  33) 


So  said  the  French  functionary  in  a  tone  of  cold  formality  that 
seemed  to  fervid  expostulation  ! 

Although  Maynard  knew,  that  by  this  time,  the  noble  Magyai 
had  sacrificed  his  splendid  beard,  his  fine  face  was  too  well-known 
about  London  to  escape  recognition  in  the  streets.  Especially 
would  it  be  in  danger  of  identification  in  the  French  cjonsulai 
office,  King  William  Street,  either  by  the  passport  agent  himself 
or  the  half-score  of  lynx-eyed  spies  always  hanging  around  it. 

Kossuth's  countenance  could  never  be  passed  off  for  the  visage 
of  a  valet  ! 

But  Maynard  thought  of  a  way  to  get  over  the  difficulty. 
It  was  suggested  by  the  seedy  coat,  and  hungry  look,  of  the 
French  official. 

"  It  will  be  very  inconvenient,"  he  said.  "  I  live  in  the  West 
End,  full  five  miles  off.  It's  a  long  way  to  go,  and  merely  to  drag 
my  servant  back  with  me.  I'd  give  a  couple  of  sovereigns  to  be 
spared  the  trouble." 

"  I'm  sorry,"  rejoined  the  agent,  all  at  once  becoming  wonder- 
fully civil  to  the  man  who  seemed  to  care  so  little  for  a  couple  of 
sovereigns.  "  It's  the  regulation,  as  monsieur  must  know.  But — 
if  monsieur " 

The  man  paused,  permitting  the  "  but "  to  have  effect 

"You  would  greatly  oblige  by  saving  me  the  necessity " 

"  Could  monsieur  give  an  exact  description  of  his  servant  ?  " 

"  From  head  to  foot." 

"  Trh  bien  I  Perhaps  that  will  be  sufficient." 

Without  farther  parley,  a  word-painting  of  the  ex-dictator  of 
Hungary  was  done  upon  stamped  paper. 

It  was  a  full-length  portrait,  giving  his  height,  age,  the  hue  of  his 
hair,  the  colour  of  his  skin,  and  the  capacity  in  which  he  was  to 
serve. 

From  the  written  description,  not  a  bad  sort  of  body-servant 
should  be  "James  Dawkins."  * 

"  Exceedingly  obliged,  monsieur ! n  said  Maynard,  receiving  the 
sheet  from  the  agent,  at  the  same  time  slipping  into  the  hand  that 
gave  it  a  couple  of  shining  sovereigns.     Then  adding,  "Your 

*  This  is  an  actual  fact     I  still  have  in  my  possession  the  passport     E.  R. 


338  The  Child  Wift. 


politeness  has  saved  me  a  world  of  trouble/'  he  hastened  out  of 
the  office,  leaving  the  Frenchman  in  a  state *of  satisfied  surprise 
with  a  grimace  upon  his  countenance  that  only  a  true  son  of  Gaul 
can  give. 

Early  in  the  afternoon  of  that  same  day,  master  and  man  were 
quite  ready  to  start. 

The  portmanteaus  were  packed,  their  travelling  gear  arranged, 
and  tickets  had  been  secured  for  the  night  mail,  via  Dover  and 
Calais. 

They  only  waited  for  the  hour  of  its  departure  from  London. 

It  was  a  singular  conclave — that  assembled  in  one  of  the  rooms 
of  Kossuth's  residence  in  St.  John's  Wood. 

It  consisted  of  eight  individuals ;  every  one  of  whom  bore  a 
title  either  hereditary  or  honourably  acquired. 

All  were  names  well  known,  most  of  them  highly  distinguished. 
Two  were  counts  of  Hungary,  of  its  noblest  blood— one  a  baron 
of  the  same  kingdom  ;  while  three  were  general  officers,  each  of 
whom  had  commanded  a  corps  tfarm'ee. 

The  seventh,  and  lowest  in  rank,  was  a  simple  captain — May- 
nard  himself. 

And  the  eighth — who  was  he? 

A  man  dressed  in  the  costume  of  a  valet,  holding  in  his  hand  a 
cockaded  hat,  as  if  about  to  take  departure  from  the  placa 

It  was  curious  to  observe  the  others  as  they  sate  or  stood 
around  this  semblance  of  a  lacquey;  counts,  barons,  and  generals, 
all  like  him,  hats  in  hand;  not  like  him  intending  departure. 
They  were  only  uncovered  out  of  respect ! 

They  talked  with  him  in  a  tone  not  obsequious,  though  still  .n 
the  way  one  speaks  to  a  superior;  while  his  answers  were 
received  with  a  deference  that  spoke  of  the  truest  esteem  ! 

If  there  ever  was  proof  of  a  man's  greatness,  it  is  when  his 
associates  in  prosperity  honour  him  alike  in  the  hour  of  his 
adversity. 

And  such  was  the  case  with  the  ex-dictator  of  Hungary,  for  it 
it  scarce  necessary  to  say  that  the  disguised  valet  was  Kossuth. 

Even  in  those  dark  dreary  hours  of  his  exile,  when  his  cause 
•eemed  hopeless,  and  the  cold  world  frowned  scornfully  upon 


Purcliasing  a  Passport.  339 


him,  he  might  be  seen  surrounded,  not  by  a  circle  of  neecjy 
sycophants,  but  the  noblest  blood  of  Hungary,  all  deferent,  all 
with  hats  in  hand,  honouring  him  as  in  that  hour  when  the  desti- 
nies of  their  beloved  country,  as  their  own,  were  swayed  by  K;s 
will ! 

The  writer  of  this  tale  has  witnessed  such  a  scene,  and  \fegatw 
ft  as  the  grandest  triumph  of  mind  over  matter,  of  truth  over 
charlatanism,  that  ever  came  under  his  eyes. 

The  men  now  assembled  around  him  were  all  in  the  secret  of 
Kossuth's  design.  They  had  heard  of  the  insurrectionary  rising 
at  Milan,  it  was  the  subject  of  their  conversation  ;  and  most  of 
them,  like  Kossuth  himself,  were  making  ready  to  take  part  in 
the  movement. 

Most,  too,  like  him,  believed  it  to  be  an  imprudent  step  on  the 
part  of  Mazzini — for  it  was  Mazzini  who  was  citing  it.  Some  of 
them  pronounced  it  madness  ! 

The  night  was  a  dark  one,  and  favourable  for  taking  de- 
parture. It  needed  this ;  for  they  knew  of  the  spies  that  were 
upon  them. 

But  Maynard  had  taken  precautions  to  elude  the  vigilance  of 
these  cur  dogs  of  despotism. 

He  had  designed  a  ruse  that  could  not  be  otherwise  than 
successful.  There  were  two  sets  of  portmanteaus — one  empty,  to 
leave  Kossuth's  house  in  the  cab  that  carried  the  captain  and  his 
servant.  This  was  to  draw  up  at  the  north  entrance  of  the  Bur- 
lington Arcade,  and  remain  there  until  its  hirers  should  return 
from  some  errand  to  the  shops  of  that  fashionable  promenade. 

At  the  Piccadilly  entrance  another  hansom  would  be  found, 
holding  the  real  luggage  of  the  travellers,  which  had  been  trans- 
ported the  night  before  to  the  residence  of  the  soldier-author. 

They  would  be  sharp  detectives  whom  this  scheme  would  not 
outwit 

Cunning  as  it  was,  it  was  never  carried  out  Thank  God  it  was 
not!    . 

From  what  became  known  afterward,  both  Kossuth  and  Captain 
Maynard  might  well  repeat  the  thanksgiving  speech. 

Had  they  succeeded  in  running  the  gauntlet  of  the  English 
spies,  it  would  have  been  but  a  baneful  triumph.     In  less  than 


340  The  Child  Wife. 


twenty  hours  after,  they  would  have  been  both  inside  a  French 
prison — Kossuth  to  be  transferred  to  a  more  dangerous  dungeon 
in  Austria;  his  pretended  master,  perhaps,  to  pine  long  in  his 
cell,  before  the  flag  of  his  country  would  be  again  extended  for 
his  extradition. 

They  did  not  enter  upon  the  attempt;  not  even  so  far  as 
getting  into  the  cab  that  stood  waiting  at  Kossuth's  gate.  Before 
this  preliminary  step  was  taken,  a  man  rushing  into  the  home 
prevented  their  leaving  it 


CHAPTER  LXXIV. 

A  SHAM    INSURRECTION. 

It  was  Count  Roseveldt  who  caused  the  change  of  prog*.      f& 
of  which  an  explanation  is  needed. 

Shortly  before,  the  Count,  forming  one  of  the  circle  wtttmd 
Kossuth,  had  slipped  quietly  away  from  it — sent  forth  by  Korsutb 
himself  to  reconnoitre  the  ground. 

His  knowledge  of  London  life— for  he  had  long  lived  /.here — 
caused  him  to  be  thus  chosen. 

The  object  was  to  discover  how  the  spies  were  placed. 

The  dark  night  favoured  him ;  and  knowing  that  the  spies 
themselves  loved  darkness,  he  sauntered  toward  a  spot  where  he 
supposed  they  might  be  found. 

He  had  not  been  long  in  it,  when  voices  in  conversation 
admonished  him  that  men  were  near.     He  saw  two  of  them. 

They  were  approaching  the  place  where  he  stood. 

A  garden  gate,  flanked  by  a  pair  of  massive  piers,  formed  a 
niche,  dark  as  the  portals  of  Pluto. 

Into  this  the  Count  retreated  ;  drawing  himself  into  inn  smallest 
dimensions  of  which  his  carcase  was  capable. 

A  fog,  almost  palpable  to  the  feel,  assisted  in  screening 
him. 

The  two  men  came  along ;  and,  as  good  luck  would  have  it, 
stopped  nearly  in  front  of  the  gate. 

They  were  still  talking,  and  continued  to  talk,  loud  enough  for 
Roseveldt  to  hear  them.  fl 

He  did  not  know  who  they  were ;  but  their  conversation  soon 
told  him.  They  were  the  spies  who  occupied  the  house  opposite 
Kossuth — the  very  individuals  he  had  sallied  forth  in  search  of. 

The  obscurity  of  the  night  hindered  him  from  having  a  view  of 
their  faces.  He  could  only  make  out  two  figures,  indistinctly 
traceable  through  the  filmy  envelope  of  the  fog. 


142  The  Child   Wife. 


But  it  mattered  not.  He  bad  never  seen  thes€  spies,  and  was, 
therefore,  unacquainted  with  their  personal  appearance.  Enough 
to  hear  what  they  were  saying. 

And  he  heard  sufficient  for  his  purpose — sufficient  to  keep  him 
silent  till  they  were  gone ;  and  then  bring  him  back  with  ao 
excited  air  into  the  circle  from  which  he  had  late  parted. 

He  burst  into  the  room  with  a  speech  that  caused  astonishment 
— alraost  consternation  ! 

"  You  must  not  go,  Governor  ! "  were  the  words  that  proceeded 
from  his  lips. 

"Why?"  asked  Kossuth,  in  surprise,  the  question  echoed  by 
all. 

"  Mein  Gott  /"  responded  the  Austrian.  "  I've  learnt  a  strange 
tale  since  I  left  you." 

"  What  tale  ?  " 

"  A  tale  about  this  rising  in  Milan.  Is  there  on  the  earth  a  man 
so  infamous  as  to  believe  it  ?  " 

"  Explain  yourself,  Count !  " 

It  was  the  appeal  of  all  present. 

"  Have  patience,  gentlemen  1  You'll  need  it  all,  after  hearing 
me." 

"Goon!" 

"I  found  theje  forbans,  as  we  expected.  Two  of  them  were  in 
the  street,  talking.  I  had  concealed  myself  in  the  shadow  of  a 
gateway  ;  opposite  which  the  scoundrels  shortly  after  came  to  a 
stand.  They  did  not  see  me;  but  I  saw  them,  and,  what's  better, 
heard  them.  And  what  do  you  suppose  I  heard  ?  Pcste  I  you 
won't  one  of  you  believe  it !  " 

"  Tell  us,  and  try  1 " 

"  That  the  rising  in  Milan  i?  a  sham — a  decoy  to  entrap  the 
nobie  Governor  here,  and  others  of  us  into  the  toils  of  Austria.  It 
has  been  got  up  for  no  other  purpose — so  said  one  of  these  spies 
to  the  other,  giving  the  source  whence  he  had  his  information." 

"Who?" 

M  His  employer,  Lord .' 

Kossuth  started  So  did  his  companions  ;  for  the  information, 
though  strange  to  them,  was  not  by  any  means  incredible. 

"  Yes  ! "  continued  Roseveldt :  "  there  can  be  no  doubt  of  what 


A  Sham  Insurrection.  343 

I  tell  you.  The  spy  who  communicated  it  to  his  fellow  gave 
facts  and  dates,  which  he  must  have  derived  from  a  certain  source ; 
and  for  my  own  part  I  was  already  under  the  belief  that  the  thing 
looked  like  it.  I  know  the  strength  of  those  Bohemian  "regiments. 
Besides  there  are  the  Tyrolese  sharpshooters — true  body-guards 
of  a  tyrant.  There  could  have  been  no  chance  for  us,  whatever 
Guiseppe  Mazzini  may  think  of  it  It's  certainly  intended  fox  a 
trap  ;  and  we  must  not  fall  into  it.     You  will  not  go,  Governor  ?  " 

Kossuth  looked  around  the  circle,  and  then  more  particularly 
at  Maynard. 

"Do  not  consult  me,"  said  the  soldier-author.  "I  am  still 
ready  to  take  you." 

"And  you  are  quite  sure  you  heard  this?"  asked  the  ex- 
Governor,  once  more  turning  to  Roseveldt. 

11  Sure,  your  Excellency.  IVe  heard  it  plain  as  words  could 
speak.  They  are  yet  buzzing  in  my  ears,  as  if  they  would  burn 
them  ! " 

"  What  do  you  say,  gentlemen  ?  "  asked  Kossuth,  scrutinizing 
the  countenances  of  those  around  him.  "Are  we  to  believe  in 
an  infamy  so  atrocious  ?  " 

Before  reply  could  be  made,  a  ring  at  the  gate-bell  interrupted 
their  deliberations. 

The  door  opened,  admitting  a  man  who  came  directly  into  the 
room  where  the  revolutionists  were  assembled. 

All  knew  him  as  Colonel  Ihasz,  the  friend  and  adjutant  of 
Kossuth. 

Without  saying  a  word,  he  placed  a  slip  of  paper  in  the  ex- 
Governor's  hands. 

All  could  see  it  was  the  transcript  of  a  telegraphic  message. 

It  was  in  a  cipher ;  of  which  Kossuth  alone  had  the  key. 

In  sad  tone,  and  with  trembling  voice,  he  translated  it  to  a 
circle  sad  as  himself : 

u  The  rising  has  proved  only  an  '  £meute.'  There  has  been 
treachery  behind  it.  The  Hungarian  regiments  were  this  morning 
disarmed.  Sco/es  of  the  poor  fellows  are  being  shot.  Maazinit 
myself  and  others,  are  likely  to  share  the  same  fate,  unless  some 
miraculous  chance  turns  up  in  our  favour.      We  art  surrounded  &n 


344  Ih*  Child  Wife, 


all  sides;  and  can  scarce  escape.     For  deliverance  must  trust  to  the 
God  of  Liberty, 

"Turr." 

Kossuth  staggered  to  a  seat.  He  seemed  as  though  he  would 
have  fallen  on  the  floor ! 

"  I  too  invoke  the  God  of  Liberty  1 "  he  cried,  once  more 
starting  to  his  feet,  after  having  a  little  recovered  himself.  "  Can 
He  permit  such  men  as  these  to  be  sacrificed  on  the  altar  of 
Despotism  ? — Mazzini,  and  still  more,  chivalrous  Turr — the 
bravest,  the  best,  the  handsomest  of  my  officers  \n 

No  man,  who  ever  saw  General  Turr,  would  care  to  question 
the  eulogy  thus  bestowed  upon  him.  And  his  deeds  done  since 
speak  its  justification. 

The  report  of  Roseveldt  had  but  foreshadowed  the  terrible 
disaster,  confirmed  by  the  telegraphic  despatch. 

The  Count  had  spoken  in  good  time.  But  for  the  delay  occa- 
sioned by  his  discovery,  Kossuth  and  Captain  Maynard  would 
have  been  on  their  way  to  Dover  ;  too  late  to  be  warned — too 
late  to  be  saved  from  passing  their  next  night  as  guests  of  Louis 
Napoleon — in  o?ie  of  his  prisons  I 


CHAPTER  LXXV. 

A  STATESMAN    IN    PRIVATE    LIFE. 

Wrapped  in  a  richly-embroidered  dressing-gown,  with  tasselled 
cap  set  jauntily  on  his  head — his  feet  in  striped  silk  stockings  and 
red  morocco  slippers — Swinton's  noble  patron  was  seated  in  his 
library. 

He  was  alone ;  soothing  his  solitude  with  a  cigar — one  of  the 
best  brand,  from  the  vuelta-dt-abajo. 

A  cloud  upon  his  brow  told  that  his  spirit  was  troubled. 

But  it  was  only  a  slight  ruffle,  such  as  might  spring  from  some 
unpleasantness.  It  was  regret  for  the  escape  of  Louis  Kossuth, 
from  the  toils  that  had  been  set  for  him,  and  set  according  to  his 
lordship's  own  suggestions. 

His  lordship,  along  with  other  crown-commissioned  con- 
spirators, had  expected  much  from  the  'emeute  at  Milan.  With  all 
their  cunning  had  they  contrived  that  sham  insurrection,  in  the 
hopes  of  getting  within  their  jailers'  grasp  the  great  leaders  of  the 
"  nationalities." 

Their  design  was  defeated  by  their  own  fears.  It  was  a  child 
whose  teeth  were  too  well  grown  to  endure  long  nursing ;  and, 
before  it  could  be  brought  to  maturity,  they  were  compelled  to 
proclaim  it  a  bastard. 

This  was  shown  by  their  sudden  disarming  of  the  Hungarian 
regiments,  and  the  arrest  of  such  of  the  compromised  as  had  too 
rashly  made  appearance  upon  the  spot. 

There  were  shootings  and  hangings — a  hecatomb.  But  the 
victims  were  among  the  less  prominent  men  of  revolutionary 
record ;  while  the  great  chiefs  succeeded  in  making  good  their 
escape. 

Mazzini,  the  "  untakable,"  got  clear  in  a  manner  almost  miracu- 
lous ;  and  so  too  the  gallant  Turr. 

Thanks  to  the  electric  wires,  whose  silent  speech  even  kings 


346  The  Child  Wife. 


cannot  control,  Kossuth  was  spared  the  humiliation  of  imprison* 
ment. 

It  was  the  thought  of  this  that  shadowed  the  spirit  of  Swinton's 
patron,  as  he  sate  reflecting  upon  the  failure  of  the  diabolical 
scheme. 

His  antipathy  to  the  Magyar  chief  was  twofold.  He  hated 
him  diplomatically,  as  one  whose  doctrines  were  dangerous  to 
the  "  divine  right "  of  kings.  But  he  had  also  a  private  spite 
against  him  ;  arising  from  a  matter  of  a  more  personal  kind.  For 
words  uttered  by  him  of  an  offensive  nature,  as  for  acts  done  in 
connection  with  his  employment  of  the  spies,  Kossuth  had  called 
him  to  account,  demanding  retractation.  The  demand  was  made 
in  a  private  note,  borne  by  a  personage  too  powerful  to  be  slighted. 
And  it  elicited  a  reluctant  but  still  truckling  apology. 

There  were  not  many  who  knew  of  this  episode  in  the  life  of 
the  ex-dictator  of  Hungary,  so  humiliating  to  the  nobleman  in 
question.  But  it  is  remembered  by  this  writer;  and  was  by  his 
lordship,  with  bitterness,  till  the  day  of  his  death. 

That  morning  he  remembered  it  more  bitterly  than  ever ;  for 
he  had  failed  in  his  scheme  of  revenge,  and  Kossuth  was  still 
unharmed. 

There  was  the  usual  inspiration  given  to  the  newspapers,  and 
the  customary  outpouring  of  abuse  upon  the  head  of  the  illus- 
trious exile. 

He  was  villified  as  a  disturber,  who  dared  not  show  himself  on 
the  scene  of  disturbance ;  but  promoted  it  from  his  safe  asylum 
in  England.     He  was  called  a  tk  revolutionary  assassin  ! " 

For  a  time  there  was  a  cloud  upon  his  name,  but  not  for  long. 
To  defend  him  once  more  appeared  Maynard  with  his  trenchant 
pen.     He  knew,  and  could  tell  the  truth. 

He  did  tell  it,  hurling  back  his  taunt  upon  the  anonymous 
slanderer,  by  styling  him  the  "  assassin  of  the  desk." 

In  fine,  Kossuth's  character  came  out,  not  only  unscathed, 
but,  in  the  eyes  of  all  true  men,  stood  clearer  than  ever. 

It  was  this  that  chafed  the  vindictive  spirit  of  his  lordship,  at 
he  sate  smoking  an  "  emperor." 

The  influence  of  the  nicotian  weed  seemed  gradually  to  tran- 
quillize him,  and  the  shadow  disappeared  from  his  brow. 


A   Statesman  in  Private  Life,  347 

And  he  had  solace  from  another  source— from  reflection  on  a 
triumph  achieved ;  not  in  the  fields  of  diplomacy  or  war,  but  the 
court  of  Cupid.  He  was  thinking  of  the  many  facile  conquests 
he  had  made — consoling  himself  with  the  thought,  that  okl  age 
has  its  compensation,  in  fame,  money,  and  power. 

More  particularly  was  his  mind  dwelling  on  his  newest  and 
latest  amourette,  with  the  wife  of  his  protege,  Swinton.  He  had 
reason  to  think  it  a  success ;  and  attributing  this  to  his  own 
powers  of  fascination — in  which  he  still  fancifully  believed — he 
continued  to  puff"  away  at  his  cigar  in  a  state  of  dreamy  content- 
ment 

It  was  a  rude  disturber  to  his  Sardanapalian  train  of  thought, 
as  a  footman  gliding  into  the  room,  placed  a  card  in  his  hand 
that  carried  the  name  of  "  Swinton." 

"  Where  is  he  ?  "  was  the  question  curtly  put  to  the  servant. 

"  Drawin'-room,  your  ludship." 

"You  should  not  have  shown  him  there,  till  you'd  learnt 
whether  it  was  convenient  for  me  to  receive  him." 

"  Pardon,  your  ludship.  He  walked  right  in  'ithout  bein'  asked 
— sayin'  he  wished  very  partickler  to  speak  with  your  ludship." 

"  Show  him  in  here,  then  1 " 

The  flunkey  made  obeisance,  and  withdrew. 

"  What  can  Swinton  want  now  ?  I  have  no  business  with  hiin 
to-day;  nor  any  more,  for  that  matter,  if  I  could  conveniently 
get  rid  of  him.  Walked  straight  in  without  being  asked  !  And 
wishes  particularly  to  speak  with  me  !     Rather  cool  that !  " 

His  lordship  was  not 'quite  cool  himself,  while  making  the 
reflection.  On  the  contrary,  a  sudden  pallor  had  shown  itself  on 
his  cheeks,  with  a  whiteness  around  the  lips,  as  when  a  man  is 
under  the  influence  of  some  secret  apprehension. 

"  I  wonder  if  the  fellow  has  any  suspicion " 

His  lordship's  reflection  was  stayed  by  the  entrance  of  the 
«  fellow  "himself; 


CHAPTER  LXXVI. 

A    MODEST   DEMAND. 

The  aspect  of  his  proteg'e^  as  he  stepped  inside  the  room,  wai 

anything  but  reassuring  to  the  sexagenarian  deceiver. 

On  the  contrary,  his  pale  cheeks  became  paler,  his  white  lips 
whiter.  There  was  something  in  the  ex-guardsman's  eye  and  air 
that  bespoke  a  man  having  a  grievance ! 

More  than  that,  a  man  determined  on  its  being  righted.  Nor 
could  his  lordship  mistake  that  it  was  against  himself.  The  bold, 
almost  bullying,  attitude  of  his  visitor,  so  different  from  that 
hitherto  held  by  him,  showed  that,  whatever  might  be  his  suit,  it 
was  not  to  be  pressed  with  humility. 

"  What  is  it,  my  dear  Swinton  ?  "  asked  his  scared  patron,  in  a 
tone  of  pretended  conciliation.  "  Is  there  anything  I  can  do  for 
you  to-day  ?     Have  you  any  business  ?  " 

"  I  have  ;  and  a  very  disagreeable  business  at  thafc" 

In  the  reply,  "  his  lordship "  did  not  fail  to  remark  the  dis- 
courteous omission  of  his  title. 

"  Indeed  ! "  he  exclaimed,  without  pretending  to  notice  it 
"  Disagreeable  business  ?     With  whom  ?  " 

"  With  yourself,  my  lord." 

"  Ah  !  you  surprise — I  do  not  understand  you,  Mr.  Swinton." 

"  Your  lordship  will,  when  I  mention  a  little  circumstance  that 
occurred  last  Friday  afternoon.  It  was  in  a  street  south  side  of 
Leicester  Square." 

It  was  as  much  as  his  lordship  could  do  to  retain  his  scat. 

He  might  as  well  have  risen  ;  since  the  start  he  gave,  on  hearing 
the  name,  told  that  he  knew  all  about  the  "  little  circumstance." 

"  Sir — Mr.  Swinton  !     I  do  not  comprehend  you  ! " 

"  You  do  — perfectly  ! "  was  Swinton's  reply,  once  more  dis- 
respectfully omitting  the  title.  "  You  should  know,"  he  contipn-d 
•*  since  you  were  in  that  same  street,  at  the  same  time." 

^8 


A  Modest  Demand.  349 

"  I  deny  it." 

"  No  use  denying  it.  I  chanced  to  be  there  myself,  and  saw 
you.  And,  although  your  lordship  did  keep  your  lordship's  face 
well  turned  away,  there  can  be  no  difficulty  in  swearing  to  it — 
neither  on  my  part  nor  that  of  the  gentleman  who  chanced  to  be 
along  with  me ;  and  who  knows  your  lordship  quite  as  well  as  I." 

There  was  title  enough  in  this  speech,  but  coupled  with  too 
much  sarcasm. 

"  And  what  if  I   was   in  Street  at  the  time  you  say  ? " 

demanded  the  accused  in  a  tone  of  mock  defiance. 

"Not  much  in  that.     Street's  as  free  to  your  lordship  as 

to  any  other  man.  A  little  more  free,  I  suspect.  But  then,  youi 
lordship  was  seen  to  come  out  of  a  certain  house  in  that  respect- 
able locality,  followed  by  a  lady  whom  I  have  also  good  reason 
to  know,  and  can  certainly  swear  to.  So  can  the  friend  who  was 
with  me." 

"  I  cannot  help  ladies  following  me  out  of  houses.  The  thing, 
I  presume,  was  purely  accidental." 

"  But  not  accidental  her  going  in  along  with  you — especially 
as  your  lordship  had  shown  her  the  courtesy  to  hand  her  out  of  a 
cab,  after  riding  some  way  through  the  streets  with  her  !  Come, 
my  lord,  it's  of  no  use  your  endeavouring  to  deny  it.  Subterfuge 
will  not  serve  you.  I've  been  witness  to  my  own  dishonour,  as 
have  several  others  besides.     I  seek  reparation." 

If  all  the  thrones  in  Europe  had  been  at  that  moment  tumbling 
about  his  ears,  the  arch-conspirator  of  crowned  heads  would  not 
have  been  more  stunned  by  the  dclabre?nent  Like  his  celebrated 
prototype,  he  cared  not  that  after  him  came  the  deluge  ;  but  a 
deluge  was  now  threatening  himself — a  deep,  damning  inundation, 
that  might  engulf  not  only  a  large  portion  of  his  fortune,  but  a 
large  measure  of  his  fame  ! 

He  was  all  the  more  frightened,  because  both  had  already 
suffered  from  a  shock  somewhat  similar. 

He  knew  himself  guilty,  and  that  it  could  be  proved  / 

He  saw  how  idle  would  be  the  attempt  to  justify  himself.  He 
had  no  alternative  but  to  submit  to  Swinton's  terms  ;  and  he  oniy 
hoped  that  these,  however  onerous,  might  be  obtained  without 
exposure. 


350  The  Child  Wife. 


The  pause  that  had  occurred  in  the  conversation  was  positively 
agonizing  to  him.  It  was  like  taking  the  vulture  from  his  liver, 
when  Swinton  spoke  again,  in  a  tone  that  promised  compromise. 

"  My  lord,"  he  said,  "  I  feel  that  I  am  a  dishonoured  man.  But 
I'm  a  poor  man,  and  cannot  afford  to  go  to  law  with  your  lord- 
ship." 

"Why  should  you,  Mr.  Swinton?"  asked  the  nobleman,  hastily 
catching  at  the  straw  thus  thrown  out  to  him.  **  I  assure  you  it 
is  all  a  mistake.  You  have  been  deceived  by  appearances.  1  had 
my  reasons  for  holding  a  private  conversation  with  the  lady  you 
suspect;  and  I  could  not  just  at  the  moment  think  of  anywhere 
else  to  go." 

It  was  a  poor  pretence ;  and  Swinton  received  it  with  a 
sneer.  His  lordship  did  not  expect  otherwise.  He  was  but 
speaking  to  give  his  abused  protege  a  chance  of  swallowing  the 
dishonour. 

f*  You're  the  last  man  in  the  world,"  he  continued,  "  with  whom 
I  should  wish  to  have  a  misunderstanding.  I'd  do  anything  to 
avoid  it ;  and  if  there  be  any  service  I  may  render  you,  name  it. 
Can  you  think  of  anything  I  may  do  ?  " 

*'  I  can,  my  lord." 

"  What  is  it  you  would  wish  ?  " 

"  A  title.     Your  lordship  can  bestow  it  ?  n 

This  time  the  nobleman  started  right  out  of  bis  chair,  and  stood 
with  eyes  staring,  and  lips  aghast. 

"  You  are  mad,  Mr.  Swinton  !  " 

"  I  am  not  mad,  my  lord  !     I  mean  what  I  say.w 

"  Why,  sir,  to  procure  you  a  title  would  create  a  scandal  thai 
might  cost  me  my  reputation.  The  thing's  not  to  be  thought  of. 
Such  honours  are  only  bestowed  upon " 


"Upon  those  who  do  just  such  services  as  I.  All  stuff,  my 
lord,  to  talk  of  distinguished  services  to  the  State.  I  suppose 
that's  what  you  were  going  to  say.  It  may  do  very  well  for  the 
ears  of  the  unwashed ;  but  it  has  no  meaning  in  mine  If  merit 
were  the  means  of  arriving  at  such  distinction,  we'd  never  have 

heard  of  such  patents  of  nobility  as  Lord  B ,  and  the  Earl  of 

C ,  and  Sir  H.  N ,  and  some  threescore  others  I  could 

quote.     Why,  my  lord,  it's  the  very  absence  of  merit  that  gave 


A  Modest  Demand,  351 

these  gentlemen  the  right  to  be  written  about  by  Burke.  And 
look  at  Burke  himself,  made  'Sir  Bernard*  for  being  but  the 
chronicler  of  your  heraldry.  Pretty,  pretty  service  to  the  State, 
that  is  !     I'm  sure  I've  as  good  right  as  he." 

"I  don't  deny  that,  Mr.  Swinton.  But  you  know  it's  not  a 
question  of  right,  but  expediency." 

"  So  be  it,  my  lord.     Mine  is  just  such  a  case." 

"  I  tell  you  I  dare  not  do  it." 

u  And  I  tell  you,  you  dare !  Your  lordship  may  do  almost 
anything.  The  British  public  believe  you  have  both  the  powei 
and  the  rigfyt,  even  to  make  the  laws  of  the  land.  You've  taught 
them  to  think  so ;  and  they  know  no  better.  Besides,  you  are 
at  this  moment  so  popular.     They  think  you  perfection  ! " 

"  Notwithstanding  that,"  rejoined  his  lordship,  without  noticing 
the  sneer,  "  I  dare  not  do  what  you  wish.  What !  get  you  a  title  1 
I  might  as  well  talk  about  dethroning  the  queen,  and  proclaiming 
you  king  in  her  stead." 

"  Ha  !  ha  !  I  don't  expect  any  honour  quite  so  high  as  that. 
I  don't  want  it,  your  lordship.  Crowns,  they  say,  make  heads 
uneasy.  I'm  a  man  of  moderate  aspirations.  I  should  be  con- 
tented with  a  coronet." 

"  Madness,  Mr.  Swinton ! w 

"  Well ;  if  you  can't  make  me  a  lord  like  yourself,  it's  within 
bounds  for  me  to  expect  a  baronetcy.  I'll  even  be  content  with 
simple  knighthood.     Surely  your  lordship  can  get  me  that  ?  " 

"  Impossible  ! "  exclaimed  the  patron,  in  an  agony  of  vexation. 
"  Is  there  nothing  else  you  can  think  of?     A  post — an  office  ?  " 

"  I'm  not  fit  for  either.  I  don't  want  them.  Nothing  less  than 
the  title,  my  lord." 

"  It's  only  a  title  you  want  ?  "  asked  the  nobleman,  after  a  pause, 
and  as  if  suddenly  impressed  with  some  idea  that  promised  to  serve 
him.  "  You  say  you're  not  particular  ?  Would  that  of  a  Count 
satisfy  you  ?  " 

"  How  could  your  lordship  procure  that  ?  There  are  no  Counts 
in  England  ! " 

"  But  there  are  in  France." 

"  I  know  it — a  good  many  of  them ;  more  than  have  means  to 
support  the  titles." 


353  The  Child  Wife. 

"  Never  mind  the  means.  The  title  will  secure  them  to  a  man 
of  your  talents.  You  may  be  one  of  the  number.  A  French 
Count  is  still  a  Count.     Surely  that  title  would  suit  you  ?" 

Swinton  seemed  to  reflect. 

"  Perhaps  it  would.  You  think  your  lordship  could  obtain  it 
for  me  ?  " 

"  I  am  sure  of  it.  He  who  has  the  power  to  bestow  such  dis- 
tinctions is  my  intimate  personal  friend.  I  need  not  tell  yoa  it 
is  PVance's  ruler." 

"  I  know  it,  my  lord." 

"  Well,  Mr.  Swinton  ;  say  that  a  French  countship  will  satisfy 
you,  and  you  shall  have  it  within  a  week.  In  less  time,  if  you 
choose  to  go  to  Paris  yourself." 

"  My  lord,  I  shall  be  too  glad  to  make  the  journey." 

"Enough,  then.  Call  upon  me  to-morrow.  I  shall  have  a 
letter  prepared  that  will  introduce  you,  not  only  to  the  Emperor 
of  France,  but  into  the  ranks  of  France's  nobility.  Come  at  ten 
o'clock." 

It  is  scarce  necessary  to  say  that  Swinton  was  punctual  to  the 
appointment ;  and  on  that  same  day,  with  a  heart  full  of  rejoicing, 
made  the  journey  from  Park  Lane  to  Paris. 

Equally  delighted  was  his  patron  at  having  secured  condonation 
at  such  a  cheap  rate,  for  what  might  otherwise  have  proved  not 
only  a  costly  case  but  a  ruinous  scandal. 

In  less  than  a  week  from  this  time,  Swinton  crossed  the 
threshold  of  the  South  Bank  Villa,  with  a  patent  of  countship  is 
his  pocket 


CHAPTER  LXXVIL 

THE    COUNT    DE    VALMY. 

Ir  ever  Mrs.  Girdwood  had  a  surprise  in  her  life,  it  was  when  Mr. 
Swinton  called  at  the  Clarendon  Hotel,  and  asked  if  she  and  her 
girls  would  accept  an  invitation  to  a  reception  at  Lord 's. 

The  entertainment  was  at  the  residence  in  Park  Larie. 

The  storekeeper's  widow  gave  her  consent,  without  consulting 
her  girls ;  and  the  invitation  came  on  a  sheet  of  tinted  paper, 
bearing  the  well-known  crest. 

Mrs.  Girdwood  went  to  the  reception,  the  girls  along  with  her ; 
Julia  carrying  twenty  thousand  dollars'  worth  of  diamonds  upon 
her  head  and  shoulders. 

Otherwise  they  were  as  well  dressed  as  any  British  damsel  who 
presented  herself  in  his  lordship's  drawing-rooms;  and  among 
these  were  the  noblest  in  the  land. 

So  far  as  appearance  went,  the  American  ladies  had  no  need  to 
be  ashamed  of  the  gentleman  who  escorted  them.  Though  to 
them  but  plain  Mr.  Swinton,  Mrs.  Girdwood  was  subjected  to  a 
fresh  shock  of  surprise,  when  the  noble  host,  coming  up  to  the 
group,  accosted  him  as  "  My  dear  Count,"  and  begged  an  intro- 
duction to  his  companions. 

It  was  gracefully  given;  and  now  for  the  first  time  in  her 
life  was  Mrs.  Girdwood  certain  of  being  surrounded  by  true  titled 
aristocracy. 

There  could  be  no  deception  about  the  people  of  that  party,  who 
were  of  all  ranks  known  to  "  Burke's  British  Peerage."  Nor  could 
there  be  any  doubt  now,  that  Mr.  Swinton  was  a  "  somebody." 

"  A  count  he  is,  and  no  mistake  1 "  was  Mrs.  Girdwood's 
muttered  soliloquy.  "  He  isn't  a  lord ;  he  never  said  he  was 
one.     But  a  count's  the  same  thing,  or  the  next  to  it 

"  Besides,  there  are  counts  with  great  estates — far  greater  than 
some  lords.     Haven't  we  heard  so  ?  " 

W  A  A 


554  The  Child  Wife. 


The  question  was  in  a  side,  whisper  to  Julia,  after  all  three  had 
been  introduced  to  their  august  entertainer. 

Just  then  Julia  had  no  opportunity  of  making  answer  to  it,  for 
the  noble  host,  whose  guests  they  were,  was  so  condescending  as 
to  chat  with  her ;  and  continued  chatting  such  a  long  time,  that 
the  Count  appeared  to  be  getting  jealous  of  him  !  As  if  observ- 
ing this,  his  lordship  withdrew,  to  extend  a  like  courtesy  to  the 
twenty  other  beautiful  young  damsels  who  graced  the  reception, — 
leaving  the  Gird  wood  group  to  their  own  aad  their  Count's  guid- 
ance for  the  remainder  of  the  evening. 

Receptions  do  not  last  more  than  a  couple  of  hours,  be- 
ginning at  ten  and  breaking  up  about  twelve,  with  light  refresh- 
ments of  the  "  kettle-drum  "  kind,  that  serve,  very  unsatisfactorily, 
for  supper. 

In  consequence,  the  Count  de  Valmy  (for  such  was  Mr.  Swin- 
ton's  title)  invited  the  ladies  to  a  petit  souper  of  a  more  substantial 
kind,  at  one  of  the  snug  refectories  to  be  found  a  little  farther 
along  Piccadilly.  There,  being  joined  by  the  other  count — met 
by  them  at  Mr.  Swinton's  dinner-table,  and  who  on  this  occa- 
sion was  unaccompanied  by  his  countess — they  passed  a  pleasant 
hour  or  two,  as  is  usually  the  case  at  a  petit  souper. 

Even  the  gentle  Cornelia  enjoyed  herself,  though  not  through 
the  company  of  the  two  counts.  She  had  met  a  gentleman  at  the 
reception — a  man  old  enough  to  have  been  her  father— but  one 
of  those  noble  natures  with  which  the  heart  of  a  young  confiding 
girl  readily  sympathises.  They  had  chatted  together.  He  had 
said  some  words  to  her,  that  made  her  forget  the  disparity  of 
years,  and  wish  for  more  of  his  conversation.  She  had  given 
consent  to  his  calling  on  her,  and  the  thought  of  this  hindered 
her  from  feeling  forsaken,  even  when  the  Count  de  Valmy  con- 
fined his  attention  to  her  cousin,  and  the  married  count  made 
himself  amiable  to  her  aunt ! 

The  Champagne  and  Moselle  were  both  of  best  quality ;  and 
Mrs.  Girdwood  was  induced  to  partake  of  both  freely,  as  was  also 
her  daughter. 

The  two  counts  were  agreeable  companions— but  more  especially 
he  who  had  so  long  passed  as  Mr.  Swinton,  and  who  was  no  longer 
careful  about  keeping  up  his  incognito. 


The  Count  de   Valmy.  355 

It  ended  in  Mrs.  Girdwood's  heart  warming  towards  him  with 
the  affection  of  a  mother;  while  Julia's  became  almost  softened 
to  that  other  affection  which  promised  to  bestow  upon  her  the 
title  of  "  Countess." 

"  What  could  be  better,  or  prettier?"  thought  she,  repeating  the 
words  of  her  willing  mother.  A  stylish  countess,  with  a  handsome 
count  for  husband— dresses  and  diamonds,  carriages  and  cash,  to 
make  the  title  illustrious  I 

Of  the  last  the  count  himself  appeared  to  have  plenty ,  but 
whether  or  no,  her  mother  had  given  promise  that  it  should  not 
be  wanting. 

And  what  a  grand  life  it  would  be  to  give  leceptions  herself 
—  not  only  in  great  London,  but  in  the  Fifth  Avenue,  New 
York! 

And  then  she  could  go   back  to  Newport  in  the  height  of  the 

fashionable  season  ;  and  how  she  could  spite  the  J 's,  and  the 

L 's,  and  the  B 's  ;  make  them  envious  to  the  tips  of  their 

fingers,  by  flaunting  herself  before  their  faces  as  the  "  Countess  de 
Vaimy!" 

What  if  she  did  not  love  her  count  to  distraction  !  She  would 
not  be  the  first — not  by  millions— who  had  stifled  the  cherished 
yearnings  of  a  heart,  and  strained  its  tenderest  chords,  to  submit 
to  a  marriage  de  convenance  / 

In  this  mood  Swinton  found  her,  when,  under  his  true  and  reat 
name,  he  once  more  made  his  proposal. 

And  she  answered  it  by  consenting  to  become  the  Countess  d< 
Valmy. 


CHAPTER   LXXVIII 

CONTEMPLATING    A    CANAL. 

Swinton's  triumph  seemed  complete. 

He  already  had  a  title,  which  no  one  could  take  from  him— 
not  even  he  who  had  bestowed  it 

He  possessed  both  the  patent  and  parchments  of  nobility ;  and 
he  intended  taking  care  of  them. 

But  he  still  wanted  fortune ;  and  this  seemed  now  before  him 

Julia  Girdwood  had  consented  to  become  his  wife,  with  a 
dower  of  ,£50,000,  and  the  expectation  of  as  many  thousands 
more ! 

It  had  been  a  rare  run  of  luck,  or  rather  a  chapter  of  cunning — 
subtle  as  fiendish. 

But  it  was  not  yet  complete.  The  marriage  remained  to  be 
solemnized.     And  when  solemnized,  what  then  ? 

The  sequel  was  still  in  doubt,  and  full  of  darkness.  It  was 
darkened  by  dangers,  and  fraught  with  fears. 

If  Fan  should  prove  untrue?  True  to  herself,  but  untrue  to 
him  ?  Supposing  her  to  become  stirred  with  an  instinct  of  oppo- 
sition to  this  last  great  dishonour,  and  forbid  the  banns?  She 
might  act  so  at  the  eleventh  hour;  and  then  to  him,  disappoint- 
ment, disgrace,  ruin ! 

-  But  he  had  no  great  fear  of  this.  He  felt  pretty  sure  she 
would  continue  a  consenting  party,  and  permit  his  nefarious 
scheme  to  be  consummated.     But  then  ?     And  what  then  ? 

She  would  hold  over  him  a  power  he  had  reason  to  dread — a 
very  sword  of  Damocles  ! 

He  would   have   to   share  with  her  the  ill-gotten  booty — he 
knew  her  well  enough  for  this— submit  to  her  will  in  everytl 
f<>r  he  knew  also  that  she  had    a  will — new   that   she   was   re- 
established on  the  ride  of  Potten    Row  as   one  of  its  prettisst 
horse-breakers, 


Contemplating  a  Canal,  357 

There  was  something,  beside  the  thought  of  Fan's  reclaiming 
him,  that  vexed  him  far  more  than  the  fear  of  any  mulct.  He 
would  be  willing  to  bleed  black-mail  to  any  amount  convenient — 
even  to  the  half  of  Julia  Girdwood's  fortune,  to  insure  his  past 
wife  keeping  quiet  for  ever. 

Strange  to  say,  he  had  grown  to  care  little  for  the  money? 
though  it  may  not  appear  strange  when  the  cause  is  declared. 

It  will  only  seem  so,  considering  the  character  of  the  man. 
Wicked  as  Swinton  was,  he  had  fallen  madly  in  love  with  Julia 
Gird  wood — madly  and  desperately. 

And  now  on  the  eve  of  possessing  her,  to  hold  that  possession 
as  by  a  thread,  that  might  be  cut  at  any  moment  by  caprice. 

And  that  caprice  the  will  of  an  injured  wife!  No  wonder  the 
wretch  saw  in  his  future  a  thorny  entanglement — a  path,  if  be- 
strewed with  flowers,  beset  also  by  death's-heads  and  skeletons ! 

Fan  had  helped  him  in  his  scheme  for  acquiring  an  almost 
fabulous  fortune ;  at  a  touch  she  could  destroy  it. 

"  By  heaven  !  she  shall  not/"  was  the  reflection  that  came  forth 
from  his  lips  as  he  stood  smoking  a  cigar,  and  speculating  on  the 
feared  future.  Assisted  in  conception  by  that  same  cigar,  and 
before  it  was  smoked  to  a  stump,  he  had  contrived  a  plan  to 
secure  him  against  his  wife's  future  interference  in  whatever  way 
it  might  be  exerted. 

His  scheme  of  bigamy  was  scarce  guilt,  compared  with  that 
now  begotten  in  his  brain. 

He  was  standing  upon  the  edge  of  the  canal,  whose  steep  bank 
formed  the  back  inclosure  of  his  garden.  The  tow-path  was  on 
the  other  side,  so  that  the  aqueous  chasm  yawned  almost  directly 
under  his  feet. 

The  sight  of  it  was  suggestive.  He  knew  it  was  deep.  He 
saw  it  was  turbid,  and  not  likely  to  tell  tales. 

There  was  a  moon  coursing  through  the  sky.  Her  beams,  here 
and  there,  fell  in  bright  blotches  upon  the  water.  They  came 
slanting  through  the  shrubbery,  showing  that  it  was  a  young  moon, 
and  would  soon  go  down. 

It  was  already  dark  where  he  stood,  in  the  shadow  of  a  huge 
kaurustinus ;  but  there  was  light  enough  to  show  that  with  a  iiend's 
lace  he  was  contemplating  the  canal. 


358  The  Child  Wife. 


"It  would  do!"  he  muttered  to  himself;  "but  not  here.  The 
thing  might  be  fished  up  again.  Even  if  it  could  be  made  to 
appear  suicide,  there'd  be  the  chance  of  an  identification  and 
connection  with  me.  More  than  chance — a  dead,  damnable 
certainty. 

"  That  would  be  damnable  1  I  should  have  to  appear  at  a 
coroner's  quest  to  explain. 

"  Bah !  what  use  in  speculating  ?  Explanation,  under  the  cir- 
cumstances, would  be  simply  condemnation. 

"  Impossible  !     The  thing  can't  be  done  here! 

"But  it  can  be  done,"  he  continued;  "and  in  this  canal,  too. 
It  has  been  done,  no  doubt,  many  a  time.  Yes,  silent  sluggard  ! 
if  you  could  but  speak,  you  might  tell  of  many  a  plunge  made 
into  your  sluggish  waves,  alike  by  the  living  and  the  dead ! 

"You  will  suit  for  my  purpose;  but  not  here.  I  know  the 
place,  the  very  place — by  the  Park  Road  bridge. 

"And  the  time,  too — late  at  night.  Some  dark  night,  when 
the  spruce  tradesmen  of  Wellington  Road  have  gone  home  to  the 
bosom  of  their  families. 

"Why  not  this  very  night?"  he  asked  himself,  stepping 
nervously  out  from  the  laurustinus,  and  glaring  at  the  moon, 
whose  thin  crescent  flickered  feebly  through  cumulus  clouds. 
"  Yonder  farthing  dip  will  be  burnt  out  within  the  hour,  and  if 

that  sky  don't  deceive  me,  we'll  have  a  night  dark  as  d m. 

A  fog,  too,  by  heavens ! "  he  added,  raising  himself  on  tiptoe,  and 
making  survey  of  the  horizon  to  the  east.  "Yesl  there's  no 
mistake  about  that  dun  cloud  coming  up  from  the  Isle  of  Dogs, 
with  the  colour  of  the  Thames  mud  upon  it 

"Why  not  to-night?"  he  again  asked  himself,  as  if  by  the 
question  to  strengthen  him  in  his  terrible  resolve.  "  The  thing 
can't  wait  A  da-y  may  spoil  everything.  If  it  is  to  be  done,  th* 
sooner  the  better.     It  must  be  done  / 

u  Yes,  yes ;  the  re's  fog  coming  over  that  sky,  if  I  know  aught 
of  London  weather.  It  will  be  on  before  midnight.  God  granf 
it  may  stay  till  the I  morning ! " 

The  prayer  passing  from  his  lips,  in  connection  with  the  horrid 
scheme  in  his  thoughts,  gave  an  expression  to  his  countenance 
truly  diabolical 


Contemplating  a  Canal.  359 

Even  his  wife,  used  to  see  the  "  ugly "  in  his  face,  could  not 
help  noticing  it,  as  he  went  back  into  the  house— where  she  had 
been  waiting  for  him  to  go  out  for  a  walk. 

It  was  a  walk  to  the  Haymarket,  to  enjoy  the  luxuries  of  a  set 
supper  in  the  Cafe'  d'Europe,  where  the  "  other  count,"  with  the 
Honourable  Geraldine,  and  one  or  two  friends  of  similar  social 
standing,  had  made  appointment  to  meet  them. 

It  was  not  the  last  promenade  Swinton  intended  to  take  with 
his  beloved  Fan.  Before  reaching  the  Haymarket,  he  had 
planned  another  for  that  same  night,  if  it  should  prove  to  be  a  dark 


CHAPTER   LXXIX 

A   PETIT   SOUPER. 

The  supper  was  provided  by  "  Kate  the  coper,"  who  had  lately 
been  "  in  luck  " ;  having  netted  handsomely  on  one  of  her  steeds, 
sold  to  a  young  "  spoon  "  she  had  recently  picked  up,  and  who 
was  one  of  the  party. 

The  "  coped "  individual  was  no  other  than  our  old  friend 
Frank  Scudamore,  who,  by  the  absence  of  his  cousin  abroad,  and 
her  benign  influence  over  him,  had  of  late  taken  to  courses  of 
dissipation. 

The  supper  given  by  Kate  was  a  sort  of  return  to  her  friend 
Fan  for  the  dinner  at  the  M'Tavish  villa;  and  in  sumptuousness 
was  a  spread  no  way  inferior. 

Jn  point  of  time  it  might  have  been  termed  a  dinner;  for  it 
commenced  at  the  early  hour  of  eight. 

This  was  to  give  opportunity  for  a  quiet  rubber  of  whist  to  be 
played  afterward,  and  in  which  "  Spooney,"  as  she  called  young 
Scudamore — though  not  to  his  face — was  expected  to  be  one  of 
the  corners. 

There  was  wine  of  every  variety — each  of  the  choicest  to  be 
found  in  the  cellars  of  the  cafe\  Then  came  the  cards,  and 
continued  till  Scudamore  declared  himself  cleared  out ;  and  then 
there  was  carousal. 

The  mirth  was  kept  up  till  the  guests  had  got  into  that  con- 
dition jocularly  called  "How  come  you  so?" 

It  applied  alike  to  male  and  female.  Fan,  the  Honourable 
Gevaldine,  and  two  other  frail  daughters  of  Eve,  having  indulged 
in  the  grape  juice  as  freely  as  their  gentlemen  fellow-revellers. 

At  breaking  up,  but  one  of  the  party  seemed  firm  upon  hi9 
feet     This  was  the  Count  de  Valmy. 

It  was  not  his  habit  to  be  hard-headed;  but  on  this  ocaiuioo 
he  had  preserved  himself,  and  for  a  purpose. 


A  Petit  Souper.  361 


Busy  with  their  own  imbibing,  nobody  noticed  him  secretly 
spilling  his  liquor  into  the  spittoon,  while  pretending  to  "drink 
fair." 

If  they  had,  they  might  have  wondered,  but  could  not  have 
guessed  why.  The  fiend  himself  could  not  have  imagined  his 
foul  design  in  thus  dodging  the  drink. 

His  gay  friends,  during  the  early  part  of  the  entertainment, 
had  observed  his  abstraction.  The  Honourable  Geraldine  had 
rallied  him  upon  it.  But  in  due  time  all  had  become  so  mellow, 
and  merry,  that  no  one  believed  any  other  could  be  troubled  with 
depression  of  spirits. 

An  outside  spectator  closely  scrutinizing  the  countenance  ot 
Mr.  Swinton  might  have  seen  indications  of  such,  as  also  on  his 
part  an  effort  to  conceal  it.  His  eyes  seemed  at  times  to  turn 
inward,  as  if  his  thoughts  were  there,  or  anywhere  except  with  his 
roystering  companions. 

He  had  even  shown  neglectful  of  his  cards;  although  the 
pigeon  to  be  plucked  was  his  adversary  in  the  game. 

Some  powerful  or  painful  reflection  must  have  been  causing  his 
absent-mindedness;  and  it  seemed  a  relief  to  him  when,  satiated 
with  carousal,  the  convives  gave  tacit  consent  to  a  general 
debandade. 

There  had  been  eight  of  the  supper  party,  and  four  cabs, 
called  to  the  entrance-door  of  the  cafd,  received  them  in  assorted 
couples. 

It  was  as  much  as  most  of  them  could  do  to  get  inside;  but 
aided  by  a  brace  of  Haymarket  policemen,  with  a  like  number  of 
waiters  out  of  the  hotel,  they  were  at  length  safely  stowed,  and 
the  cabs  drove  off. 

Each  driver  obeyed  the  direction  given  him,  Scudamore 
escorting  home  the  Honourable  Geraldine,  or  rather  the  reverse  \ 
while  Swinton,  in  charge  of  his  tipsy  wife,  gave  his  cabman  the 
order — 

"Up  the  Park  Road  to  St.  John's  Wood." 

It  was  spoken,  not  loudly,  but  in  a  low  muttered  voice,  which 
led  the  man  to  think  they  could  not  be  a  married  couple. 

No  matter,  so  long  as  he  had  his  fare,  along  with  a  little 
perquisite,  which  the  gent  looked  like  giving. 


362  Ttu  Child  Wife. 

Swinton's  weather  prophecy  had  proved  true  to  a  shade.  The 
night  was  dark  as  pitch,  only  of  a  dun  colour  on  account  of  the 
fog. 

And  this  was  so  thick  that  late  fashionables,  riding  home  in 
their  grand  carriages,  were  preceded  each  carriage  by  a  pair  of 
linkmen. 

Along  Piccadilly  and  all  through  Mayfair,  torches  were  glaring 
through  the  thick  vapour ;  the  tongues  of  their  bearers  filling  the 
streets  with  jargon. 

Farther  on  across  Oxford  Street  there  were  fewer  of  them ;  and 
beyond  Portman  Square  they  ceased  to  be  seen  altogether — so 
that  the  cab,  a  four-wheeler,  containing  the  Count  de  Valmy  and 
his  countess,  crept  slowly  along  Baker  Street,  its  lamps  illumi- 
nating a  circle  of  scarce  six  feet  around  it. 

"  It  will  do,"  said  Swinton  to  himself,  craning  his  neck  out  of 
the  window,  and  scrutinizing  the  night. 

He  had  made  this  reflection  before,  as,  first  of  his  party,  he 
came  out  on  the  steps  of  the  Cafe  d'Europe. 

He  did  not  speak  it  aloud,  though,  for  that  matter,  his  wife 
would  not  have  heard  him.  Not  even  had  he  shouted  it  in  her 
ear.     She  was  asleep  in  a  corner  of  the  cab. 

Before  this  she  had  been  a  "little  noisy,"  singing  snatches  of  a 
song,  and  trying  to  repeat  the  words  of  an  ambiguous  jeu  (Tcsprit 
she  had  heard  that  evening  for  the  first  time. 

She  was  now  altogether  unconscious  of  where  she  was,  or  in 
what  company — as  proved  by  her  occasionally  waking  up,  calling 
out  "  Spooney  ! " — addressing  her  husband  as  the  other  count, 
and  sometimes  as  "  Kate  the  coper  1" 

Her  own  count  appeared  to  be  unusually  careful  of  her.  He 
took  much  pains  to  keep  her  quiet;  but  more  in  making  her 
comfortable.  She  had  on  a  long  cloth  cloak  of  ample  dimensions 
— a  sort  of  night  wrapper.  This  he  adjusted  over  her  shoulders, 
buttoning  it  close  around  her  throat,  that  her  chest  should  not  be 
exposed  to  the  fog. 

By  the  time  the  cab  had  crawled  through  Upper  Baker  Street, 
and  entered  the  Park  Road,  Fan  had  not  only  become  quiet,  but 
was  at  length  sound  asleep  ;  her  tiny  snore  alone  telling  that  she 
lived 


A  Petit  Souper.  363 


On  moved  the  vehicle  through  the  dun  darkness,  magnified  by 
the  mist  to  twice  its  ordinary  size,  and  going  slow  and  silent  as  a 
hearse. 

"Where?'  asked  the  driver,  slewing  his  body  around,  and 
speaking  in  through  the  side  window. 

"  South  Bank  !  You  needn't  go  inside  the  street.  Set  us 
down  at  the  end  of  it,  in  the  Park  Road." 

u  All  right,"  rejoined  the  Jarvey,  though  not  thinking  so.  He 
thought  it  rather  strange,  that  a  gent  with  a  lady  in  such  queer 
condition  should  desire  to  be  discharged  in  that  street  at  such  an 
hour,  and  especially  on  such  a  night ! 

Still  it  admitted  of  an  explanation,  which  his  experience 
enabled  him  to  supply.  The  lady  had  stayed  out  a  little  too  late. 
The  gent  wished  her  to  get  housed  without  making  a  noise;  and 
it  would  not  do  for  cab  wheels  to  be  heard  drawing  up  by  "  the 
door." 

What  mattered  it  to  him,  cabby,  so  long  as  the  fare  should  be 
forthcoming,  and  the  thing  made  "  square  "  ?  He  liked  it  all  the 
better,  as  promising  a  perquisite. 

In  this  he  was  not  disappointed.  At  the  corner  designated, 
the  gentleman  got  out,  lifting  his  close  muffled  partner  in  his 
arms,  and  holding  her  upright  upon  the  pavement. 

With  his  spare  hand  he  gave  the  driver  a  crown  piece,  which 
was  more  than  double  his  fare. 

After  such  largess,  not  wishing  to  appear  impertinent,  cabby 
climbed  back  to  his  box;  readjusted  the  manifold  drab  cape 
around  his  shoulders;  tightened  his  reins;  touched  the  screw 
with  his  whip ;  and  started  back  towards  the  Haymarket,  ia 
hopes  of  picking  up  another  intoxicated  fare. 

"Hold  on  to  my  arm,  Fan!"  said  Swinton  to  his  helpless 
better-half,  as  soon  as  the  cabman  was  out  of  hearing.  "  Lean 
upon  me.     I'll  keep  you  up.     So !     Now,  come  along  ! " 

Fan  made  no  reply.  The  alcohol  overpowered  her — now  more 
than  ever.  She  was  too  tipsy  to  talk,  even  to  walk ;  and  her  hus- 
band had  to  support  her  whole  weight,  almost  to  drag  her  along# 
She  was  quite  unconscious  whither.     But  Swinton  knew. 

It  was  not  along  S<--uth  Bank ;  they  had  passed  the  entrance  o* 
that  quiet  thoroughfare,  and  were  proceeding  up  the  Park  Road  I 


364  TJie  Child    Wife. 


And  why  ?     He  also  knew  why. 

Under  the  Park  Road  passes  the  Regent's  Canal,  spanned  by 
the  bridge  already  spoken  of.  You  would  only  know  you  were 
crossing  the  canal  by  observing  a  break  in  the  shrubbery.  This 
opens  westward.  On  the  east  side  of  the  road  is  the  park  wall 
rising  high  overhead,  and  shadowed  by  tall  trees. 

Looking  towards  Paddington,  you  see  an  open  list,  caused  by 
the  canal  and  its  tow-path.  The  water  yawns  far  below  your  feet, 
on  both  sides  draped  with  evergreens ;  and  foot-passengers  along 
the  Park  Road  are  protected  from  straying  over  by  a  parapet 
scarce  breast-high. 

Upon  this  bridge  Swinton  had  arrived.  He  had  stopped  and 
stood  close  up  to  the  parapet,  as  if  for  a  rest,  his  wife  still  cling- 
ing to  his  arm. 

He  was  resting ;  but  not  with  the  intention  to  proceed  farther. 
He  was  recovering  strength  for  an  effort  so  hellish,  that,  had  there 
been  light  around  them,  he  and  his  companion  would  have  ap- 
peared as  a  tableau  vivant — the  spectacle  of  a  murderer  about  to 
despatch  his  victim  !  And  it  would  have  been  a  tableau  true  to 
the  life  ;  for  such  in  reality  was  his  design! 

There  was  no  light  to  shine  upon  its  execution  ;  no  eye  to  see 
him  suddenly  let  go  his  wife's  arm,  draw  the  wrapper  round  her 
neck,  so  that  the  clasp  came  behind ;  and  then,  turning  it  inside 
out,  fling  the  skirt  over  her  head  ! 

There  could  be  no  ear  to  hear  that  smothered  cry,  as,  abruptly 
lifted  in  his  arms,  she  was  pitched  over  the  parapet  of  the  bridge  1 

Swinton  did  not  even  himself  stay  to  hear  the  plunge.  He 
only  heard  it,  indistinctly  blending  with  the  sound  of  his  own 
footsteps,  as  with  terrified  tread  he  retreated  along  the  Park 
Roadl 


CHAPTER  LXXX. 

ON    THE   TOW-ROPE. 

With  difficulty  cordelling  his  barge  around  the  Regent's  Park 
Bill  Bootle,  the  canal  boatman,  was  making  slow  speed. 

This  because  the  fog  had  thickened  unexpectedly ;  and  it  was 
no  easy  matter  to  guide  his  old  horse  along  the  tow-path. 

He  would  not  have  attempted  it ;  but  that  he  was  next  morning 
due  in  the  Paddington  Basin ;  where,  at  an  early  hour,  the  owner 
of  the  boat  would  be  expecting  him. 

Bill  was  only  skipper  of  the  craft ;  the  crew  consisting  of  his 
wife,  and  a  brace  of  young  Booties,  one  of  them  still  at  the  breast. 

Mrs.  B.,  wearing  her  husband's  dreadnought  to  protect  her 
from  the  raw  air  of  the  night,  stood  by  the  tiller,  while  Bootle 
himself  had  charge  of  the  tow-horse. 

He  had  passed  through  the  Park  Road  Bridge,  and  was  grop- 
ing his  way  beyond,  when  a  drift  of  the  fog  thicker  than  common 
came  curling  along  the  canal,  compelling  him  to  make  stop. 

The  boat  was  still  under  the  bridge ;  and  Mrs.  Bootle,  feeling 
that  the  motion  was  suspended,  had  ceased  working  the  spokes. 
Just  at  this  moment,  both  she  and  her  husband  heard  a  shuffling 
sound  upon  the  bridge  above  them  ;  which  was  quick  followed  by 
a  "  swish,"  as  of  some  bulky  object  descending  through  the  air  ! 

There  was  also  a  voice ;  but  so  smothered  as  to  be  almost 
inaudible ! 

Before  either  had  time  to  think  of  it,  a  mass  came  splashing 
down  upon  the  water,  between  the  boat  and  the  horse ! 

It  had  struck  the  tow-rope ;  and  with  such  force,  that  the  old 
machiner,  tired  after  a  long  spell  of  pulling,  was  almost  dragged 
backwards  into  the  canal. 

And  frighted  by  the  sudden  jerk,  it  was  as  much  as  Bootle 
could  do  to  prevent  him  rushing  forward,  and  going  in  h»*td 
foremost 


$66  The  Child  Wife. 


The  difficulty  in  tranquillizing  the  horse  hy  in  the  fact  that  the 
tow-rope  was  still  kept  taut  by  some  one  who  appeared  to  be 
struggling  upon  it,  and  whose  smothered  cries  could  be  heard 
coming  up  from  the  disturbed  surface  of  the  water  ! 

The  voice  was  not  so  choked,  but  that  Bootle  could  tell  it  to 
be  that  of  a  woman  ! 

The  boatman's  chivalrous  instincts  were  at  once  aroused ;  and* 
dropping  the  rein,  he  ran  back  a  bit,  and  then  sprang  with  a 
plunge  into  the  canal. 

It  was  so  dark  he  could  see  nothing ;  but  the  half-stifled  cries 
served  to  guide  him ;  and  swimming  towards  the  tow-rope,  he 
discovered  the  object  of  his  search ! 

It  was  a  woman  struggling  in  the  water,  and  still  upon  its 
surface. 

She  was  prevented  from  sinking  by  her  cloak,  which  had 
swished  over  on  one  side  of  the  tow-rope  as  her  body  fell  upon 
the  other. 

Moreover  she  had  caught  the  rope  in  her  hands,  and  was 
holding  on  to  it  with  the  tenacious  grasp  of  one  who  dreads 
drowning. 

The  boatman  could  not  see  her  face,  which  appeared  to  be 
buried  within  the  folds  of  a  cloak ! 

He  did  not  stay  to  look  for  a  face.  Enough  for  him  that  there 
was  a  body  in  danger  of  being  drowned  ;  and,  throwing  one  arm 
around  it,  with  the  other  he  commenced  "  swarming  "  along  the 
tow-rope  in  the  direction  of  the  barge  ! 

Mrs.  B ,  who  had  long  since  forsaken  the  tiller,  and  was 

now  "  forward,"  helped  him  and  his  burden  aboard ;  which, 
examined  by  the  light  of  the  canal-boat  lantern,  proved  to  be  a 
very  beautiful  lady,  dressed  in  rich  silk,  with  a  gold  watch  in  her 
waistbelt,  and  a  diamond  ring  sparkling  upon  her  fingers  1 

Mrs.  Bootle  observed  that  beside  this  last,  there  was  another 
ring  of  plain  appearance,  but  in  her  eyes  of  equal  significance. 
It  was  the  hoop  emblematic  of  Hymen. 

These  things  were  only  discovered  after  the  saturated  cloak 
had  been  removed  from  the  shoulders  of  the  half-drowned 
woman  ;  and  who,  but  for  it  and  the  tow-rope,  would  have  been 
drowned  altogether. 


On  the   Tow- Rope.  367 

"  What  is  this  ?  "  asked  the  lady,  gasping  for  breath,  and  look- 
ing wildly  around.  "  What  is  it,  Dick  ?  Where  are  you  ?  Where 
am  I  ?  O  God  !  It  is  water  !  I'm  wet  all  over.  It  has  nearly 
suffocated  me !  Who  are  you,  sir  ?  And  you,  woman  ;  if  you 
are  a  woman?  Why  did  you  throw  me  in?  Is  it  the  river,  or 
the  Serpentine,  or  where  ?  " 

'"Taint  no  river,  mistress,"  said  Mrs.  Bootle,  a  little  nettled  by 
the  doubt  thrown  upon  her  womanhood,  "nor  the  Sarpentine 
neyther.  It's  the  Ragent  Canal.  But  who  ha'  pitched  you  into 
it,  ye  ought  best  to  know  that  yourself." 

"  The  Regent's  Canal  ?  "  , 

"  Yes,  missus,"  said  Bootle,  taking  the  title  from  his  wife ;  "  it's 
there  you've  had  your  duckin' — just  by  the  Park  Road  here. 
You  come  switching  over  the  bridge.  Can't  you  tell  who  chucked 
you  over  ?     Or  did  ye  do  it  yerself  ?," 

The  eyes  of  the  rescued  woman  assumed  a  wandering  ex- 
pression, as  if  her  thoughts  were  straying  back  to  some  past 
scene. 

Then  all  at  once  a  change  came  over  her  countenance,  like  one 
awaking  from  a  horrid  dream,  and  not  altogether  comprehending 
the  reality ! 

For  a  moment  she  remained  as  if  considering;  and  then  all 
became  clear  to  her. 

"You  have  saved  me  from  drowning,"  she  said,  leaning  for- 
ward, and  grasping  the  boatman  by  the  wrist. 

"  Well,  yes ;  I  reckon  you'd  a-goed  to  the  bottom,  but  for  me, 
an'  the  old  tow-rope." 

"  By  the  Park  Road  bridge,  you  say  ?  " 

"  It  be  right  over  ye — the  boat's  still  under  it" 

Another  second  or  two  spent  in  reflection,  and  the  lady  again 
said: 

"  Can  I  trust  you  to  keep  this  a  secret  ?  " 

Bootle  looked  at  his  wife,  and  Mrs.  B.  back  at  her  husband, 
both  inquiringly. 

"  I  have  reasons  for  asking  this  favour,"  continued  the  lady,  in 
a  trembling  tone,  which  was  due  not  altogether  to  the  ducking. 
"  It's  no  use  telling  you  what  they  are — not  now.  In  time  I  may 
make  them  known  to  you.     Say  you  will  keep  it  a  secret  ?" 


366  Ike  Child   Wlft 


Again  Bootle  looked  interrogatively  at  his  wife  ;  and  again 
Mrs.  B.  gave  back  the  glance. 

But  this  time  an  answer  was  secured  in  the  affirmative,  through 
an  act  done  by  the  rescued  lady. 

Drawing  the  diamond  ring  off  her  finger,  and  taking  the  gold 
watch  from  behind  her  waistbelt,  she  handed  the  first  to  the 
boatman's  wife,  and  the  second  to  the  boatman  himself — tetJng 
both  to  keep  them  as  tokens  of  gratitude  for  the  saving  of  hei 
life) 

The  gifts  appeared  sufficiently  valuable,  not  only  to  cover  the 
service  done,  but  that  requested.  With  such  glittering  bribes  in 
hand,  it  would  have  been  a  strange  boatman,  and  still  stranger 
boatman's  wife,  who  would  have  refused  to  keep  a  secret,  which 
could  scarce  compromise  them. 

"  One  last  request,"  said  the  lady.  "  Let  me  stay  aboard  your 
boat  till  you  can  land  me  in  Lisson  Grove.  You  are  going  that 
way?" 

"  We  are,  missus." 

"  You  will  then  call  a  cab  for  me  from  the  stand.  There's  one 
in  the  Grove  Road,  close  by." 

"  I'll  do  that  for  your  ladyship  in  welcome." 

"  Enough,  sir.  I  hope  some  day  to  have  an  opportunity  of 
showing  you  I  can  be  grateful." 

Bootle,  still  balancing  the  watch  in  his  hand,  thought  she  had 
shown  this  already. 

Some  of  the  service  still  remained  to  be  done,  and  should  be 
done  quickly.  Leaving  the  lady  with  his  wife,  Bootle  sprang 
back  upon  the  tow-path,  and  once  more  taking  his  old  horse  by 
the  head,  trained  on  towards  the  Grove  Road. 

Nearing  its  bridge,  which  terminates  the  long  subterraneous 
passage  to  Edgware  Road,  he  again  brought  his  barge  to  a  stop, 
and  went  in  search  of  a  cab. 

He  soon  came  back  with  a  four-wheeler ;  conducted  the  drip- 
ping lady  into  it ;  said  good-night  to  her ;  and  then  returned  to 
his  craft. 

But  not  till  she  he  had  rescued  had  taken  note  of  his  name, 
the  number  of  his  boat,  and  every  particular  that  might  be  neces- 
sary to  the  finding  him  again  1 


On  the  Tow-Rope.  369 


She  did  not  tell  him  whither  she  was  herself  bound. 

She  only  communicated  this  to  the  cabman ;  who  was  directed 
co  drive  her  to  a  hotel,  not  far  from  the  Haymarket 

She  was  now  sober  enough  to  know,  not  only  wher*  «he  warn, 
but  whither  she  was  going  » 


CHAPTER  LXXXL 

CONSENT   AT   LAST. 

Since  our  last  visit  to  it,  Vernon  Hall  had  changed  from  gay  to 
grave. 

Only  in  its  interior.  Outside,  its  fine  facade  presented  the 
same  cheerful  front  to  its  park ;  the  Corinthian  columns  of  its 
portico  looked  open  and  hospitable  as  ever. 

As  ever,  elegant  equipages  came  and  went ;  but  only  to  draw 
up,  and  remain  for  a  moment  in  the  sweep,  while  theii  occupants 
left  cards,  and  made  inquiries. 

Inside  there  was  silence.  Servants  glided  about  softly,  or  on 
tiptoe ;  opened  and  closed  the  doors  gently,  speaking  in  subdued 
tones. 

It  was  a  stillness,  solemn  and  significant.  It  spoke  of  sickness 
in  the  house. 

And  there  was ;  sickness  of  the  most  serious  kind — for  it  was 
known  to  be  the  precursor  of  death. 

Sir  George  Vernon  was  dying. 

It  was  an  old  malady — a  disease  of  that  organ,  to  which  tropical 
climes  are  so  fatal — in  the  East  as  in  the  West. 

And  in  both  had  the  baronet  been  exposed ;  for  part  of  his 
earlier  life  had  been  spent  in  India. 

Induration  had  been  long  going  oiv.  It  was  complete,  and 
pronounced  incurable.  At  the  invalid's  urgent  request,  the  doctors 
had  told  him  the  truth — warning  him  to  prepare  for  death. 

His  last  tour  upon  the  Continent — whither  he  had  gone  with 
his  daughter— had  given  the  finishing  blow  to  his  strength  ;  and 
he  was  now  home  again,  so  enfeebled  that  he  could  no  longer 
take  a  walk,  even  along  the  soft,  smooth  turf  of  his  own  beautiful 
park. 

By  day  most  of  his  time  was  spent  upon  a  sofa  in  his  library, 
w&ere  he  lay  supported  by  pillows. 


Consent  at  Last,  371 


He  had  gone  abroad  with  Blanche,  in  the  hope  of  weaning  hex 
from  that  affection  so  freely  confessed ;  and  which  had  been  eve ' 
since  a  sore  trouble  to  his  spirit. 

How  far  he  had  succeeded  might  be  learnt  by  looking  in  her  sad 
thoughtful  face,  once  blithe  and  cheerful ;  by  noting  a  pallor  in 
ber  cheek,  erst  red  as  the  rose  leaf;  by  listening  to  sighs,  too 
painful  to  be  suppressed ;  and,  above  all,  to  a  conversation  that 
occurred  between  her  and  her  father  not  long  after  returning  from 
that  latest  journey,  that  was  to  be  the  last  of  his  life. 

Sir  George  was  in  his  library  reclining,  as  was  his  wont.  The 
sofa  had  been  wheeled  up  to  the  window,  that  he  might  enjoy  the 
charm  of  a  splendid  sunset :  for  it  was  a  window  facing  west 

Blanche  was  beside  him  ;  though  no  words  were  passing  be- 
tween them.  Having  finished  adjusting  his  pillow,  she  had  taken 
a  seat  near  the  foot  of  the  sofa,  ber  eyes,  like  his,  fixed  on  the  far 
sunset — flushing  the  horizon  with  strata-clouds  of  crimson,  purple, 
and  gold. 

It  w-s  mid-winter ;  but  among  the  sheltered  copses  of  Vernon 
Park  there  was  slight  sign  of  the  season.  With  a  shrubbery  whose 
foliage  never  fell,  and  a  grass  ever  green,  the  grounds  immediately 
around  the  mansion  might  have  passed  for  a  picture  of  spring. 

And  there  was  bird  music,  the  spring's  fit  concomitant :  the 
chaffinch  chattering  upon  the  taller  trees,  the  blackbird  with  flute- 
like note  fluttering  low  among  laurels  and  laurustines,  and  the 
robin  nearer  the  window  warbling  his  sweet  simple  lay. 

Here  and  there  a  bright- plumed  pheasant  might  be  seen  shoot- 
ing from  copse  to  copse  ;  or  a  hare,  scared  from  her  form,  dashing 
down  int6  the  covert  of  the  dale.  Farther  off  on  the  pastures  of 
the  park  could  be  seen  sleek  kine  consorting  with  the  antlered 
stag,  both  browsing  tranquil  and  undisturbed.  It  was  a  fair  pro- 
spect to  look  upon  ;  and  it  should  have  been  fairer  in  the  eyes  of 
one  who  was  its  proprietor. 

But  not  so  Sir  George  Vernon,  who  might  fancy  that  he  was 
looking  at  it  for  the  last  time.  The  thought  could  not  fail  to  in- 
spire painful  reflections ;  and  into  a  train  of  such  had  he  fallen. 

They  took  the  shape  of  an  inquiry :  who  was  to  succeed  him 
in  that  fair  inheritance,  handed  down  from  a  long  line  of  dis- 
tinguished ancestors  ? 


372  7V*  Child  Wife. 


His  daughter  Blanche  was  to  be  his  inheritor — since  he  had  no 
son,  no  other  child  ;  and  the  entail  of  the  estate  ended  with 
himself. 

But  Blanche  might  not  long  bear  his  name ;  and  what  other  was 
she  to  bear  ?  What  escutcheon  was  to  become  quartered  upon 
that  of  the  Vernons  ? 

He  thought  of  Scudamore ;  he  had  been  long  thinking  of  it, 
hoping,  wishing  it ;  but  now,  in  the  hours  darkened  by  approach- 
ing death,  he  had  doubts  whether  this  union  of  armorial  bearings 
would  ever  be. 

In  earlier  days  he  had  resolved  on  its  being  so,  and  up  to  a 
late  period.  He  had  spoken  of  compulsion,  such  as  he  held  by 
testamentary  powers.  He  had  even  hinted  it  to  Blanche  herself. 
He  had  made  discovery  how  idle  such  a  course  would  be ;  and 
on  this  he  was  now  reflecting.  He  might  as  well  have  thought 
of  commanding  yonder  sun  to  cease  from  its  setting,  yonder  stag 
to  lay  aside  its  grandeur,  or  the  birds  their  soft  beauty.  You  may 
soften  an  antipathy,  but  you  cannot  kill  it ;  and,  obedient  child 
though  she  was,  not  even  her  father's  will,  not  all  the  powers  upon 
earth,  could  have  removed  from  Blanche  Vernons  mind  the 
antipathy  she  had  conceived  for  her  cousin  Scudamore. 

In  the  same  way  you  may  thwart  an  affection,  but  not  destroy 
it ;  and  a  similar  influence  would  not  have  sufficed  to  chase  from 
Blanche  Vernon's  mind  the  memory  of  Captain  Maynard.  His 
image  was  still  upon  her  heart,  fresh  as  the  first  impression — fresh 
as  in  that  hour  when  she  stood  holding  his  hand  untk:r  the  shade 
of  the  deodara  /  Her  father  appeared  to  know  all  this..  If  not, 
her  pale  cheek,  day  by  day  growing  paler,  should  have  admonished 
him.  But  he  did  know,  or  suspected  it :  and  the  time  had  come 
for  him  to  be  certain. 

"  Blanche  !  "  he  said,  turning  round,  and  tenderly  gazing  in  her 
face. 

"  Father?"  She  pronounced  the  word  interrogatively,  thinking 
it  was  some  request  for  service  to  the  invalid.  But  she  started  as 
she  met  his  glarne.     It  meant  something  more  ! 

"  My  daughter,"  he  said,  "  I  shall  not  be  much  longer  with 
you." 

"  Dear  father  I  do  not  say  so  1 " 


Consent  at  Last,  373 


"  It  is  true,  Blanche.  The  doctors  tell  me  I  am  dying  ;  and  I 
know  it  myself." 

"  O  father  !  dear  father  1 w  she  exclaimed,  springing  forward 
from  her  seat,  falling  upon  her  knees  beside  the  sofa,  and  covering 
his  face  with  her  tresses  and  tears. 

"  Do  not  weep,  my  child  !  However  painful  to  think  of  it, 
these  things  must  be.  It  is  the  fate  of  all  to  leave  this  world ; 
and  I  could  not  hope  to  be  exempted.  It  is  but  going  to  a  better, 
where  God  Himself  will  be  with  us,  aad  where  we  are  told  there 
is  no  more  weeping.  Come,  child  !  compose  yourself.  Return 
to  your  seat,  and  listen  ;  for  I  have  something  to  say  to  you." 

Sobbingly  she  obeyed — sobbing  as  though  her  heart  would 
break. 

"  When  I'm  gone,"  he  continued,  after  she  had  become  a  little 
calmer,  "  you,  my  daughter,  will  succeed  to  my  estates.  They  are 
not  of  great  value ;  for  I  regret  to  say  there  is  a  considerable 
mortgage  upon  them.  Still,  after  all  is  paid  off,  there  will  be  a 
residue — sufficient  for  your  maintenance  in  the  position  to  which 
you  have  been  accustomed." 

"  Oh,  father  !  do  not  speak  of  these  things.     It  pains  me  1 " 

"  But  I  must,  Blanche  ;  I  must  It  is  necessary  you  should  be 
made  acquainted  with  them ;  and  necessary,  too,  that  /  should 
know " 

What  was  it  necessary  he  should  know  ?  He  had  paused,  as  if 
afraid  to  declare  it. 

"  What,  papa  ?  "  asked  she,  looking  interrogatively  in  his  face, 
at  the  same  time  that  a  blush,  rising  upon  her  cheek,  told  she 
half  divined  it. 

"  What  should  you  know  ?  n 

"  My  dear  daughter  ! "  he  rejoined,  shunning  a  direct  answer. 
11  It  is  but  reasonable  tc  suppose  you  will  be  some  day  changing 
your  name.  I  should  be  unhappy  to  leave  the  world,  thinking 
you  would  not ;  and  I  could  leave  it  all  the  happier  to  think  you 
will  change  it  for  one  worthy  of  being  adopted  by  the  daughter  of 
a  Vernon — one  borne  by  a  man  deserving  to  be  my  son  !  " 

"  Dear  father  !  "  cried  she,  once  more  sobbing  spasmodically, 
'•  pray  do  not  speak  to  me  of  this !  I  know  whom  you  mean. 
Xt&  ;  I  know  it,  I  know  it     O  father,  it  can  never  be  1 " 


374  The  Child  Wife. 


She  was  thinking  of  the  name  Scudamore;  and  that  it  could 
never  be  hers  ! 

"  Perhaps  you  are  mistaken,  my  child.  Perhaps  I  did  not 
mean  any  name  in  particular." 

Her  grand  blue  eyes,  deeper  blue  under  their  bedewing  of 
tears,  turned  inquiringly  upon  her  father's  face. 

She  said  nothing ;  but  seemed  waiting  for  him  to  further 
explain  himself. 

"  My  daughter,"  he  said,  "  I  think  I  can  guess  what  you  meant 
by  your  last  speech.  You  object  to  the  name  Scudamore  ?  Is  it 
not  so  ?  " 

"  Sooner  than  bear  it,  I  shall  be  for  ever  content  to  keep  my 
own — yours — throughout  all  my  life.  Dear  father!  I  shall  do 
anything  to  obey  you — even  this.  Oh  1  you  will  not  compel  me 
to  an  act  that  would  make  me  for  ever  unhappy  ?  I  do  not,  can- 
not love  Frank  Scudamore ;  and  without  love  how  could  I — how 
could  he " 

The  womanly  instinct  which  had  been  guiding  the  young  girl 
seemed  suddenly  to  forsake  her.  The  interrogatory  ended  in  a 
convulsive  sob ;  and  once  more  she  was  weeping. 

Sir  George  could  no  longer  restrain  his  tears,  nor  expression  of 
the  sympathy  from  whence  they  proceeded. 

Averting  his  face  upon  the  pillow,  he  wept  wildly  as  she. 

Sorrow  cannot  endure  for  ever.  The  purest  and  most  poignant 
grief  must  in  time  come  to  an  end. 

And  the  dying  man  knew  of  a  solace,  not  only  to  himself,  but 
to  his  dear,  noble  daughter — dearer  and  nobler  from  the  sacrifice 
she  had  declared  herself  willing  to  make  for  him. 

His  views  about  her  future  had  been  for  som  e  time  undergoing 
a  change.  The  gloom  of  the  grave,  to  one  who  knows  he  is 
hastening  towards  it,  casts  its  shadow  alike  over  the  pride  of  the 
past,  and  the  splendours  of  the  present.  Equally  does  it  temper 
the  ambitions  of  the  future. 

And  so  had  it  effected  the  views  of  Sir  George  Vernon — socially 
as  well  as  politically.     Perhaps  he  saw  in  that  future  the  daw 


Consent  at  Last  375 


who  represented  this  idea;  a  man  he  had  once  slighted,  even  to 
scorn.  On  his  death-bed  he  felt  scorn  no  longer  ;  partly  because 
he  had  repented  of  it ;  and  partly  that  he  knew  this  man  was  in 
the  mind  of  his  daughter — in  her  heart  of  heart.  And  he  knew 
also  she  would  never  be  happy  without  having  him  in  her  arms  1 

She  had  promised  a  self-sacrifice — nobly  promised  it  A  com- 
mand, a  request,  a  simple  word  would  secure  it  1 

Was  he  to  speak  that  word  ? 

No  !  Let  the  crest  of  the  Vernons  be  erased  from  the  page  of 
heraldry  !  Let  it  be  blended  with  the  plebeian  insignia  of  a  re- 
public, rather  than  a  daughter  of  his  house,  his  own  dear  child, 
should  be  the  child  of  a  life-long  sorrow ! 

In  that  critical  hour,  he  determined  she  should  not. 

"  You  do  not  love  Frank  Scudamore  ?  "  he  said,  after  the  long 
sad  interlude,  recurring  to  her  last  speech. 

"  I  do  not,  father ;  I  cannot !  " 

"  But  you  love  another?  Do  not  fear  to  speak  frankly — can- 
didly, my  child  !     You  love  another  ?  " 

"  I  do— I  do  ! " 

"And  that  other  is — Captain  Maynard?" 

"  Father  !  I  have  once  before  confessed  it.  I  told  you  I  loved 
him,  with  my  whole  heart's  affection.  Do  you  think  that  could 
ever  change  ?  " 

"  Enough,  my  brave  Blanche  1 "  exclaimed  the  invalid,  raising 
his  head  proudly  upon  the  pillow,  and  contemplating  his  daughter, 
as  if  in  admiration.  "  Enough  !  dearest  Blanche  !  Come  to  my 
arms  !  Come  closer  and  embrace  your  father — your  friend,  who  will 
not  be  much  longer  near  you.  It  will  be  no  fault  of  mine,  if  I  do 
not  leave  you  in  other  arms — if  not  dearer,  perhaps  better  able  to 
protect  you  !  "       t 

The  wild  burst  of  filial  affection  bestowed  upon  a  dying  parent 
permits  not  expression  in  speech. 

Never  was  one  wilder  than  when  Blanche  Vernon  flung  her 
arms  around  the  neck  of  her  generous  parent,  and  showered  her 
scalding  tears  upon  his  cheek  I 


CHAPTER  LXXXII. 

A   CONSOLING   EPISTLE. 

"  Nevfe.*  incite  to  see  her — never  more  to  hear  of  her  !  From  hev 
I  need  not  expect.  She  dams  not  write.  'No  doubt  an  embargo 
has  been  laid  upon  that.     Parental  authority  forbids  it. 

"  And  I  dare  not  write  to  her  !  If  I  did,  no  doubt,  by  the  same 
parental  authority,  my  epistle  would  be  intercepted — still  further 
compromising  her — still  further  debarring  the  chance  of  a  recon- 
ciliation with  her  father  ! 

"  I  dare  not  do  it — I  should  not ! 

"  Why  should  I  not  ?  Is  it  not  after  all  but  a  false  sentiment 
of  chivalry  ? 

"  And  am  I  not  false  to  myself — to  her  ?  What  authority  ovei 
the  heart  is  higher  than  its  own  inclining?  In  the  disposal  of  the 
hand,  this,  and  this  alone,  should  be  consulted.  Who  has  the 
right  to  interpose  between  two  hearts  mutually  loving?  To  for- 
bid their  mutual  happiness  ? 

"The  parent  claims  such  right,  and  too  often  exercises  it!  It 
may  be  a  wise  control ;  but  is  it  a  just  one  ? 

"And  there  are  times,  too,  when  it  may  not  be  wisdom,  but 
madness. 

"  O  pride  of  rank  !  how  much  happiness  has  been  left  un- 
achieved through  thy  interference — how  many  hearts  sacrificed 
on  the  shrine  of  thy  hollow  pretensions  ! 

"  Blanche  !  Blanche  !  It  is  hard  to  think  there  is  a  barrier  be- 
tween us,  that  can  never  be  broken  down  !  An  obstruction  that 
no  merit  of  mine,  no  struggle,  no  triumph,  no  probation,  can 
remove  !     It  is  hard  !  hard  ! 

"  And  even  should  I  si  g^eed  in  achieving  such  triumph,  it 
might  be  too  late?  The  heart  I  have  now  might  then  be 
another's  ! " 

"  Ah  !  it  may  be  another's  i  \ow  /     Who  knows  that  it  is  not  ?  " 


A   Consoling  Epistle.  377 

It  was  Captain  Maynard  who  made  these  reflections.  He  was 
\u  his  own  studio,  and  seated  in  his  writing  chair.  But  the  last 
thought  was  too  painful  for  him  to  remain  seated ;  and,  springing 
to  his  feet,  he  commenced  pacing  the  floor. 

That  sweet  presentiment  was  no  more  in  his  mind — at  least 
not  strongly.  The  tone  and  tenour  of  his  soliloquy,  especially  its 
last  clause,  told  how  much  he  had  lost  belief  in  it.  And  his 
manner,  as  he  strode  through  the  room — his  glances,  gestures, 
and  exclamations — the  look  of  despair,  and  the  long-drawn  sigh 
— told  how  much  Blanche  Vernon  was  in  his  mind — how  much 
he  still  loved  her  1 

"  It  is  true,"  he  continued,  "  she  may  by  this  have  forgotten 
me  1  A  child,  she  may  have  taken  me  up  as  a  toy — no  more  to 
be  thought  of  when  out  of  sight  Damaged  too ;  for  doubtless 
they've  done  everything  to  defame  me  ! 

"Oh  !  that  I  could  believe  that  promise,  made  at  the  hour  of 
our  parting — recorded,  too,  in  writing  1  Let  me  look  once  more 
at  the  sweet  chirograph  ! " 

Thrusting  his  hand  into  the  pocket  of  his  vest — the  one  directly 
over  his  heart — he  drew  forth  the  tiny  sheet,  there  long  and  fondly 
treasured.     Spreading  it  out,  he  once  more  read : — 

"  Papa  is  very  angry  ;  and  I  know  he  will  never  sanction  my 
seeing  you  again.  I  am  sad  to  think  we  may  meet  no  more  ;  and 
that  you  will  forget  me.     I  shall  never  forget  you,  never — never." 

The  reading  caused  him  a  strange  commingling  of  pain  and 
pleasure,  as  it  had  done  twenty  times  before ;  for  not  less  than 
twenty  times  had  he  deciphered  that  hastily- scribbled  note. 

But  now  the  pain  predominated  over  the  pleasure.     He  had 
begun  to  believe  in  the  emphatic  clause  "  we  may  never  me 
more,"  and  to  doubt  the  declaration         shall  never  forget  y 
He  continued  to  pace  the  floor  wildly,  despairingly. 

It  did  not  do  much  to  tranquillize  him,  when  his  tv 
Roseveldt,  entered  the  room,  in  the  making  of  a  morning 
It  was  an  occurrence  too  common  to  create  any  distrac 
especially  from  such  thoughts.  And  the  Count  had  be 
changed  of  late.  He,  too,  had  a  sorrow  of  a  similar  kin 
sweetheart,  about  th*  consent  of  whose  guardian  there  wa 
question, 


378  The  Child  Wife. 

In  such  matters  men  may  give  sympathy,  but  not  consolation 
It  is  only  the  successful  who  can  speak  encouragement. 

Roseveldt  did  not  stay  long,  nor  was  he  communicative. 

Maynard  did  not  know  the  object  of  his  late-sprung   passion 
not  even  her  name  !     He  only  thought  it  must  be  some  rare 
damsel    who    could   have   caused  such  a  transformation   in   hi* 
friend — a  man   so  indifferent  to  the  fair  sex  as  to  have  often 
declared  his  determination  of  dying  a  bachelor  I 

The  Count  took  his  leave  in  c.  great  hurry;  but  not  before 
giving  a  hint  as  to  the  wh/.  Maynard  noticed  that  he  was 
dressed  with  unusual  care — his  moustache  pomaded,  his  hair 
perfumed ! 

He  confessed  to  the  motive  for  all  this— he  was  on  the  way  to 
make  a  call  upon  a  lady.  Furthermore,  he  designed  asking  her 
a  question. 

He  did  not  say  what;  but  left  his  old  comrade  under  the 
impression  that  it  was  the  proposal. 

The  interlude  was  not  without  suggestions  of  a  ludicrous  nature 
that  for  a  time  won  Maynard  from  his  painful  imaginings. 

Only  for  a  short  time.  They  soon  returned  to  hira  ;  and  once 
more  stooping  down,  he  re-read  Blanche  Vernon's  note  that  had 
been  left  lying  upon  the  table. 

Just  as  he  had  finished,  a  startling  knock  at  the  door— the  well- 
known  "  ra-ta  " — proclaimed  the  postman. 

"A  letter,  sir,"  said  the  lodging-house  servant,  soon  after 
entering  the  room. 

There  was  no  need  for  a  parley ;  the  postage  was  paid ;  and 
Maynard  took  the  letter. 

The  superscription  was  in  the  handwriting  of  a  gentleman.  It 
was  new  to  him.  There  was  nothing  strange  in  that.  An  author 
fast  rising  into  fame,  he  was  receiving  such  every  day. 

But  he  started,  on  turning  the  envelope  to  tear  it  open.  There 
was  a  crest  upon  it  he  at  once  recognised.  It  was  the  crest  of 
the  Vernons  ! 

Not  rudely  now  was  the  cream-laid  covering  displaced,  but 
carefully,  and  with  hesitating  hand. 

And  with  fingers  that  shook  like  aspen  leaves,  did  he  spread 
out  the  contained  sheer  also  carrying  the  crest 


A  Consoling  Epistle,  379 

They  became  steadier,  as  he  read  : — 

"  Sir, 

"  Your  last  words  to  me  were : — '  I  hope  the  time  may  comb 

WHEN    YOU   WILL    LOOK    LESS    SEVERELY  ON  MY  CONDUCT  !  '       Mine 

to  you,  if  I  remember  aright,  were  '  NOT  LIKELY ! ' 
•  u  Older  than  yourself,  I  deemed  myself  wiser.  But  the  oldest 
and  wisest  may  be  at  times  mistaken.  I  do  not  deem  it  a  humilia- 
tion to  confess  that  I  have  been  so,  and  about  yourself  And,  sir,  if 
you  do  not  think  it  such  to  forgive  ?ny  abrupt — /  should  rather  say, 
barbarous  —  behaviour,  it  would  rejoice  me  once  more  to  welcome  you 
as  my  guest.  Captain  Maynard  t  I  am  much  changed  since  you 
last  saw  me — in  the  pride  both  of  spirit  and  person.  I  am  upon 
my  death-bed ;  and  wish  to  see  you  before  parting  from  the  world. 

"  There  is  one  by  my  side,  watching  over  me,  who  wishes  it  too. 
You  will  co?ne  / 

"  George  Vernon." 

In  the  afternoon  train  of  that  same  day,  from  Londoa  to 
Tunbridge  Wells,  there  travelled  a  passenger,  who  had  booked 
himself  for  Sevenoaks,  Kent. 

He  was  a  gentleman  of  the  name  of  Maynard  / 


CHAPTER    LXXXIIL 

BOTH    PRE-ENGAGED. 

Scarce  a  week  had  elapsed  since  that  somewhat  lugubrious  inter- 
view between  Count  Roseveldt  and  Captain  Maynard  in  the 
room  of  the  latter,  when  the  two  men  once  more  met  in  the  same 
apartment. 

This  time  under  changed  circumstances,  as  indicated  in  the 
countenances  of  both. 

Both  seemed  as  jolly  and  joyous  as  if  all  Europe  had  become 
republican ! 

And  not  only  seemed  it,  but  were  so ;  for  both  of  them  had 
reason. 

The  Count  had  come  in.     The  Captain  was  just  going  out 

"  What  luck  1 "  cried  the  latter.  "  I  was  starting  in  search  of 
you  ! " 

"  And  I've  come  in  search  of  you  I  Captain,  I  might  have 
missed  you  1     I  wouldn't  for  fifty  pounds." 

"  I  wouldn't  have  missed  you  for  a  hundred,  Count  1  I  want  you 
in  a  most  important  matter." 

"  I  want  you  in  one  more  important." 

u You've  been  quarrelling,  Count?  I'm  sorry  for  it  I'm 
afraid  I  shall  not  be  able  to  serve  you." 

"  Reserve  your  regrets  for  yourself.  It's  more  like  you  to  be 
getting  into  a  scrape  of  that  kind.  Pardieu  /  I  suppose  you're 
in  one  ?  " 

"  Quite  the  reverse  t  At  all  events,  if  I'm  in  a  scrape,  as 
you  call  it,  it's  one  of  a  more  genial  nature.  I'm  going  to  be 
married." 

"Mein  Gott /  so  am  I!" 

"  She's  consented,  then  ?  ■ 

"She  has.  And  yours?  I  needn't  ask  who  it  is.  Itfi  ths 
yellow-haired  child,  I  suppose  ?  " 


Both  Pre-engaged.  381 


"I  once  told  you,  Count,  that  child  would  yet  be  my  wife.  I 
have  now  the  felicity  to  tell  you  she  wiU" 

"  Mere  de  Dieu!  it  is  wonderful.  T  shall  henceforth  believe  in 
presentiments.     I  had  the  same  when  I  first  saw  her  !  " 

Her?  You  mean  the  future  Countess  de  Koseveldt?  You  have 
not  told  me  who  is  destined  for  your  honour?  " 

"I  tell  you  now,  cher  capitaine,  that  she  is  the  prettiest,  dearest, 
sweetest  little  pet  you  ever  set  eyes  on.  Shell  give  you  a 
surprise  when  you  do.  But  you  shan't  have  it  till  you're  intro- 
duced to  her  right  in  front  of  the  altar;  where  you  must  go  with 
me.     I've  come  to  bespeak  you  for  that  purpose." 

"  How  very  odd!  It  was  for  that  I  was  going  to  you." 

" To  engage  me  for  best  man?" 

"Of  course;  you  once  consented  to  be  my  second.  I  know 
you  won't  refuse  me  now?" 

"It  would  be  ungrateful  if  I  did — requiring  from  you  a  similar 
service.     I  suppose  you  consent  to  reciprocate?" 

"By  all  means.     You  may  count  upon  me." 

"And  you  upon  me.  But  when  are  you  to  be  'turned  off,'  as 
these  Britishers  term  it?" 

"Next  Thursday,  at  eleven  o'clock." 

"Thursday  at  eleven  o'clock!"  repeated  the  Count  in  surprise. 
"Why,  that's  the  very  day  and  hour  I  am  myself  to  be  made  a 
benedict  of!  Sacre  Dieu!  We'll  both  be  engaged  in  the  same 
business  then  at  the  same  time!  We  won't  be  able  to  assist  one 
another!" 

"A  strange  coincidence!"  remarked  Maynard  ;  very  awkward 
too!" 

"Pestef  isn't  it?  What  a  pity  we  couldn't  pull  together!" 

Of  the  hundreds  of  churches  contained  in  the  great  city  of 
London,  it  never  occurred  to  either,  that  they  might  be  married  in 
the  same. 

"  What's  to  be  done,  cher  capitaine?'''  asked  the  Austrian.  "I'm 
a  stranger  here,  and  don't  know  a  soul — that  is,  enough  for  this  ! 
And  you — although  speaking  the  language — appear  to  be  not  much 
better  befriended!    What's  to  be  done  for  both  of  us?  " 

Maynard  was  amused  at  the  Count's  perplexity.  Stranger  as 
he  was,  he  had  no  fears  for  himself.     In  the  great  world  of  London 


382  The  Child    Wife. 


he  knew  of  more  than  one  who  would  be  willing  to  act  as  his 
groomsman— especially  with  a  baronet's  daughter  for  the  bride  ! 

"  Stay  ! "  cried  Roseveldt,  after  reflecting.  "  I  have  it !  There's 
Count  Ladislaus  Teleky.  He'll  do  for  me.  And  there's— there's 
his  cousin,  Count  Francis  !  Why  shouldn't  he  stand  up  for  you  ? 
I  know  you  are  friends.     I've  seen  you  together." 

"  Quite  true,"  said  Maynard,  remembering.  "  Though  I  didn't 
think  of  him,  Count  Francis  is  the  very  man.  I  know  he'll  con- 
sent to  see  me  bestowed.  It's  not  ten  days  since  I  assisted  in 
making  him  a  citizen  of  this  proud  British  Empire,  in  order  that 
he  might  do  as  I  intend  doing— marry  a  lady  who  ranks  among 
the  proudest  of  its  aristocracy.  Thank  you.  my  dear  Count,  for 
suggesting  him.  He  is  in  every  way  suitable ;  and  I  shall  avail 
myself  of  his  services." 

The  two  parted  ;  one  to  seek  Count  Ladislaus  Teleky,  the  other 
Francis,  to  stand  sponsors  for  them  in  that  ceremony  of  pleasant 
anticipation — the  most  important  either  had  ever  gone  through  in 
his  life. 


CHAPTER  LXXXIV. 

THE   MEET  AT  CHURCH. 

For  Maynard  a  happy  morn ! 

It  was  that  of  the  day  on  which  Blanche  Vernon  ***  «■»  Decora* 
his  bride  ! 

His  presentiment  was  upon  the  point  of  b<%fg  fulfilled;  th* 

child  was  to  be  his  wife  ! 

Not  by  abduction ;  not  by  clandestine  -/^Triage ;  but  openly, 
in  the  face  of  the  world,  and  with  the  consent  of  her  father  ! 

Sir  George  bad  conceded — arranged  everything,  even  to  the 
details  of  the  marriage  ceremony. 

It  was  to  be  soon — at  once. 

Before  dying,  he  desired  to  se4  W&  daughter  bestowed  and 
under  protection. 

If  he  had  not  chosen  the  arm*  <ta/it  were  to  protect  her,  he  no 
longer  opposed  her  choice. 

He  had  now  sanctified  it  by  /  free  formal  approval.  His  future 
son-in-law  was  no  more  a  st^.ger-guest  in  the  mansion  at  Seven 
oaks,  Kent. 

The  nuptials  were  noV  to  be  celebrated  there.     Not  that  Sir 
George   would   have  felt  any  shame   in  such  celebration ;    but  ' 
because  he  did  not  deera  it  opportune. 

He  knew  that  ere  long  sable  plumes  would  be  seen  waving 
there,  with  a  black  hatchment  upon  the  wall.  He  wished  not 
that  these  funereal  emblems  should  so  soon  fling  their  blighting 
shadow  over  the  orange  blossoms  of  the  bridal. 

It  could  be  conveniently  avoided.  He  had  a  sister  living  in 
Kensington  Gore;  and  from  her  house  his  daughter  could  be 
married. 

Besides,  the  old  parish  cnurch  of  Kensington  was  th&i 
before  whose  altar  he  had  himself  stood,  some  twex^v  vears  ago 
with  Blanche's  mother  by  bis  side. 

*3 


34  The  Child  Wife, 


irrangement  would  be  altogether  appropriate. 

i%  was  determined  upon  ;  and  Captain  Maynard  was  requested 
i  f  resent  himself  upon  a  certain  day,   at  a  certain   hour,  in  th 
h   rch  of  St.  Mary's,  Kensington. 

He  came,  ccompanied  by  Count  Francis  Teleky;  and  there 
mer  his  bride  attended  by  her  maids. 

They  were  not  many,  for  Blanche  had  expressed  a  desire  to 
shun  ostentation.  She  only  wanted  to  be  wed  to  the  man  who 
had  won  her  heart ! 

But  few  as  were  her  bridesmaids,  they  were  among  the  noblest 
of  the  land,  each  of  them  bear'ng  a  tide. 

And  they  were  of  its  loveliest  too ;  every  one  of  them  entitled 
to  the  appellation  of  "  belle." 

The  bridegroom  saw  them  not  Having  saluted  each  with  a 
simple  bow,  his  eyes  became  bent  upon  his  bride:  and  there 
stayed  they. 

Mo  colours  blend  more  harmoniously  than  those  of  tne  sun- 
oearn  and  the  rose.  Over  none  drapes  the  bridal  veil  more  be- 
comingly. 

Blanche  Vernon  needed  not  to  blush.  She  had  colour  enough 
without  that. 

But  as  her  gaze  met  his,  and  his  voice,  like  the  challenge  to 
ome  beleaguered  citadel,  seemed  to  sound  the  deaih-knell'of  her 
maiden  days,  she  felt  a  strange  sweet   trembling  in  i.er  heart, 
while  the  tint  deepened  upon  her  cheeks. 

She  was  but  too  happy  to  surrender. 

Never  in  Maynard's  eyes  had  she  looked  so  lovely.  He  stood 
as  if  spell-bound,  gazing  upon  her  beauty,  with  but  one  thought 
in  his  mind— a  longing  to  embrace  her  ! 

He  who  has  worshipped  only  in  churches  of  modern  structure 
can  have  but  little  idea  of  the  interior  of  one  such  as  that  of  St. 
Mary's,  Kensington.  Its  deep  pews  and  heavy  over-hanging 
galleries,  its  shadowy  aisles  flanked  by  pillars  and  pilasters,  make 
it  the  type  of  the  sacred  antique ;  and  on  Maynard's  mind  it 
produced  this  impression. 

And  he  thought  of  the  thousands  of  thousands  who  had  wor- 
shipped within  its  walls,  of  knights  and  noble  dames,  who  had 
knelt  before  its  altar,  and  whose  escutcheons  were  recorded  in  the 


The  Meet  at  Church,  385 

stained  glass  of  its  windows,  as  in  brass  palimpsests  set  in  the  flags 
beneath  his  feet.  How  suggestive  these  records  of  high  chivalric 
thought,  penetrating  the  far  past,  and  flinging  their  mystic  in- 
fluence over  the  present  1 

It  was  upon  Maynard,  as  he  stood  regarding  them. 


*  * 


CHAPTER  LXXXV 

THE    CLIMAX    OF    A    CRIMINAL    SCHEME. 

Despite  the  archaeological  attractions  of  St.  Mary's  Churcn,  th«. 
bridegroom  began  to  grow  impatient.  With  such  a  bride  before 
him,  no  wonder  he  wished  quick  conduct  to  the  altar  ! 

And  there  was  reason  too,  on  account  of  the  long  detention. 
At  such  a  crisis  the  shortest  delay  was  difficult  to  be  endured. 

It  mattered  but  little  that  he  knew  the  cause  ;  for  he  did  know 
it 

Summoned  at  eleven  o'clock,  he  had  been  there  at  the  ap- 
pointed time  ;  but  to  find  that  he  and  his  bride  were  not  the  only- 
couple  to  be  made  happy  on  that  same  day,  and  at  the  same 
hour !     There  was  a  party  that  had  precedence  of  his  ! 

On  first  coming  into  the  church,  he  had  seen  signs  of  it — women 
in  white  dresses  and  drooping  veils,  with  flower  fillets  upon  their 
hair. 

He  had  only  glanced  at  them  in  passing.  His  own  bride  was 
not  among  them  ;  and  his  eyes  were  only  for  her ! 

While  registering  his  name  in  the  vestry,  he  had  learned  inci- 
dentally, that  not  one,  but  two  couples  were  to  be  married  before 
him,  both  together  !     He  was  told  that  the  parties  were  friends. 

This  information  was  imparted  by  the  officiating  curate  ;  who, 
after  giving  it,  hurried  off  to  peiform  the  ceremony  of  making 
four  hearts  happy  at  one  and  the  same  time. 

As  Maynard  and  his  groomsman  returned  into  the  church,  the) 
saw  standing  before  the  altar,  in  crescent  shape,  a  row  of  ladies 
and  gentlemen.  There  were  in  all  eight  of  them — two  brides, 
two  bridegrooms,  with  a  like  number  of  "  maids"  and  "  men." 

It  was  only  after  again  saluting  his  own  bride,  and  feasting  his 
eyes  upon  her  beauty,  that  it  occurred  to  him  to  take  a  look  at 
those  whose  happiness  was  by  some  ten  minutes  to  take  pre- 
cedence of  his. 


The  Climax  of  a  Criminal  Scheme,  387 


His  first  glance  caused  him  a  singular  impression.  It  was 
almost  ludicrous  from  the  coincidence  that  declared  itself. 

Count  Roseveldt  was  standing  before  the  shrine,  with  Ladislaus 
Teleky  by  his  side,  at  the  same  instant  recognised  by  the  man  at 
Maynard's  side — his  cousin  ! 

But  who  was  the  lady  on  Roseveldfs  left,  holding  him  by  the 
hand  ?     Cornelia  Inskip  I 

Another  coincidence;  still  another  was  in  store  for  him;  equally 
strange  and  far  more  startling ! 

Following  the  crescent  curvature,  he  scrutinized  the  couple  on 
Count  Roseveldt's  right  They  were  the  other  two  standing  up 
to  be  married. 

It  was  with  difficulty  he  could  restrain  an  ejaculation,  on  re* 
cognising  Julia  Girdwood  as  the  bride,  and  Richard  Swinton  the 
bridegroom  1 

With  an  effort  he  controlled  himself.  It  was  no  business  of 
his;  and  he  only  made  the  muttered  remark: — "Poor  girl" 
there's  something  noble  about  her.  What  a  pity  she  should  throw 
herself  away  on  such  a  scamp  as  Dick  Swinton !  w 

Maynard  knew  only  some  of  Dick  Swinton's  antecedents.  He 
had  no  suspicion  that  the  ex-guardsman  was  at  that  moment  in 
the  act  of  committing  bigamy  I 

It  had  not  yet  reached  fulfilment.  It  was  upon  the  verge  of 
it.  As  Maynard  stood  in  speechless  contemplation,  the  clergyman 
came  to  that  solemn  question,  proceeding  from  his  lips  in  the 
form  of  a  demand  : — 

"  I  require  and  charge  of  you  in  the  .  .  .  if  either  of  you 
know  any  impediment^  why  ye  may  not  be  lawfully  joined  together 
m  Matrimony,  ye  do  now  confess  it? 

There  was  the  usual  interval  of  silence,  but  not  so  long  as  is 
usual.  It  was  shortened  by  a  response,  a  thing  altogether  un- 
usual!  This  came  not  from  bride  or  bridegroom,  but  a  third 
party,  who  suddenly  appeared  upon  the  scene  ! 

A  woman,  young  and  beautiful,  well-dressed,  but  with  a  wild 
look  in  her  eye,  and  anger  in  her  every  movement,  shot  out  from 
behind  one  of  the  supporting  columns,  and  hastily  approached  the 
altar  I  She  was  followed  by  two  men,  who  appeared  to  act  under 
her  orders. 


388  The  Child  Wife. 


"  If  they  donft  know  any  impediment,  I  do,"  cried  he  ;  u  one 
that  will  hinder  them  from  being  joined  in  matrimony.  I  mean 
these  two  !  "  she  added,  pointing  to  Svvinton  and  Julia ! 

"  On  what  ground  do  you  interfere?"  gasped  the  clergyman, 
as  soon  as  he  had  recovered  from  the  shock  of  surprise.  "Speak, 
woman  ! " 

"  On  the  ground  that  this  man  is  married  already.     He  is  my 

husband,  and  would  have  been  my  murderer,  but  for Here, 

men  ! "  she  commanded,  dropping  the  explanatory  tone  as  she 
turned  to  the  two  plain-clothes  policemen  who  attended  her, 
M  take  this  gentleman  in  charge,  and  see  that  you  keep  him  in 
safe  custody.     This  is  your  warrant." 

The  two  representatives  of  the  executive  did  not  stay  to  examine 
the  piece  of  stamped  paper.  They  were  already  acquainted  with 
its  character  ;  «*r»d  before  the  bigamous  bridegroom  could  speak  a 
word  of  protest,  their  horny  hands  were  laid  upon  his  shoulder, 
ready,  at  resistance,  to  clutch  him  by  the  collar  ! 

He  made  none — not  even  a  show  of  it.  He  looked  like  a 
man  suddenly  thunderstruck — trembling  from  head  to  foot;  and, 
so  trembling,  he  was  conducted  out  of  the  church  1 

It  is  not  in  the  power  of  the  pen  to  describe  the  scene  he  had 
so  unwillingly  forsaken.  The  tableau,  of  which  he  had  formed 
part,  was  broken  up  by  his  involuntary  departure.  It  became 
transformed  into  a  crowd — a  confusion  of  talking  men  and  shriek- 
ing women. 

Julia  Girdwood  was  not  among  them.  At  the  first  interruption 
of  the  ceremony,  by  that  excited  intruder,  she  had  comprehended 
all.  Some  instinct  seemed  to  warn  her  of  her  woe  ;  and  guided 
by  it,  she  glided  out  of  the  church,  and  took  solitary  shelter  in  a 
carriage  that  was  to  have  borne  her  home  a  bride,  with  a  husband 
by  her  side  • 

A  new  tableau,  with  characters  all  changed,  was  soon  alter  formed 
in  front  of  the  altar. 

It  was  not  disturbed,  till  after  Captain  Maynard  had  placed  the 
ring  on  Blanche  Vernon's  finger,  saluted  her  as  his  wedded  wife, 
and  listened  to  the  prayer  that  sanctified  their  union  ! 

Then  there  was  a  hand-shaking  all  round,  a  kissing  on  the  part 
of  pretty  bridesmaids,  a  rustling  of  silk  dresses  as  they  filed  ou' 


The  Climax  of  a  Criminal  Scheme.  389 

of  the  church,  a  getting  into  grand  carriages,  and  then  off  to  the 
aunt's  residence  in  Kensington  Gore  ! 

That  same  evening  a  gentleman  travelled  to  Tunbridge  Wells, 
with  a  lady  by  his  side,  on  whose  finger  glittered  a  plain  gold  ring 
newly  placed  there.  It  was  not  lonely  for  them,  having  a  whole 
carriage  to  themselves.  They  were  the  most  contented  couple  in 
the  train  1 


CHAPTER  LXXXVL 

STILL    LATER. 

With  mingled  emotions  do  we  bring  our  tale  to  a  close.  Seme 
of  its  scenes  may  have  given  pain  ;  while  others,  it  is  to  be  hoped, 
have  been  suggestive  of  pleasure. 

And  with  like  mingled  emotions,  must  we  part  from  its  con- 
spicuous characters  :  leaving  some  with  regret,  others  with  glad- 
ness. 

There  are  those  of  them  whose  after  fate  cannot  fail  to  cause 
pain.     Perhaps  more  than  all  that  of  Julia  Girdwood. 

It  is  told  in  three  words  :  a  disgust  with  all  mankind — a  de- 
termination never  to  marry — and  its  consequence,  a  life  of  old 
maid-hood  ! 

She  still  lives  it,  and  who  knows  that  she  may  not  like  it  ?  If 
not  now,  when  her  mother  takes  departure  from  the  world,  leaving 
her  to  the  enjoyment  of  a  million  dollars. 

But  Mrs.  Girdwood  has  not  done  so  yet ;  and  says  she  don't 
intend  to  for  a  score  of  years  to  come  ! 

She  would  herself  get  married,  but  for  that  crooked  clause  in 
the  deceased  storekeeper's  will,  which  is  all-powerful  to  prevent 
her! 

"  Poor  Fan  Swinton  !  " 

So  a  moralist  might  have  said,  who  saw  her,  six  months  after, 
driving  through  the  Park,  with  a  parasol  upon  her  whip,  and  a 
pair  of  high-steppers  in  the  traces — both  whip  and  steppers  paid 
for  by  one  who  is  not  her  husband. 

Perhaps  there  were  but  few  moralists  m  the  Park  to  make  the 
reflection  ! 

"And  poor  Dick  Swinton  ! " 

There  were  still  fewer  to  say  that,  as  the  ex-guardsman  itood  in 
the  dock  of  a  criminal  court,  charged  not  only  with  an  attempt  at 
bigamy,  but  murder  ! 


Still  Later.  391 


Fewer  still,  after  both  charges  had  been  proved ;  and  with  hah 
close  cropped  he  took  forced  departure  for  a  far-distant  land  ! 

The  "other  count"  went  in  the  same  ship  with  him,  into  a  like 
involuntary  exile,  and  from  causes  somewhat  similar ! 

And  the  Honourable  Geraldine  Courtney  in  time  followed  suit : 
she  losing  her  luxuriant  tresses  for  having  changed  from  the  pro- 
fession of  "  horse  coper  "  to  the  less  reputable  calling  of  coiner  ! 

She  had  a  long  "  innings,"  however,  before  it  came  to  that : 
time  enough  to  bring  to  ruin  more  than  one  young  swell — among 
others  Frank  Scudamore,  the  "spooney"  of  the  Haymarket 
supper. 

Sir  Robert  Cottrell  still  lives  ;  and  still  continues  to  make  grand 
conquests  at  the  cheapest  possible  price. 

And  alive,  too,  are  Messrs.  Lucas  and  Spiller,  both  returned  to 
America  from  their  European  tour,  and  both  yet  bachelors. 

The  former  may  be  seen  any  day  sauntering  along  the  streets 
of  New  York,  and  frequently  flitting  around  that  Fifth  Avenue 
House,  where  dwells  the  disconsolate  Julia. 

Notwithstanding  repeated  renulses,  he  has  not  lost  hope  of  con- 
soling her,  by  effecting  a  cnange  in  her  name  ! 

His  shadow,  Spiller,  is  not  so  much  seen  along  with  him — at 
least  upon  the  flags  of  the  Fifth  Avenue. 

Cornelia  Inskip,  the  star  that  should  have  attracted  him  thither, 
is  no  longer  there.  The  daughter  of  the  Poughkeepsie  retailer 
has  long  since  changed,  not  only  her  name,  but  place  of  abode. 
She  can  be  found  in  the  capital  of  Austria,  by  any  one  inquiring 
for  the  Countess  von  Roseveldt. 

More  fortunate  than  her  ambitious  cousin,  who  sought  a  title 
without  finding  it,  Cornelia  found  one  without  seeking  it ! 

It  seems  like  dealing  out  dramatic  justice,  but  the  story  is  true. 

Not  much  of  a  tragedy,  since  we  have  but  one  death  to  record. 
That,  too,  expected,  though  painful. 

Sir  George  Vernon  died  ;  but  not  till  after  having  seen  his 
daughter  married  to  the  man  of  her  choice,  and  given  his  blessing 
both  to  the  Child    Wije  and  her  chosen  husband. 

It  has  long  made  them  happy  in  their  English  home ;  and, 
now,  in  a  far  foreign  land -the  laud  where  they  first  saw  one 
another — that  blesJi 


592  The  Child  Wife. 


Maynard  believes  in  Blanche,  and  she  in  him,  as  at  that  how 
when  si;*  saw  him  lifted  in  the  arms  of  big-bearded  men,  and 
carried    n  board  the  Cunard  steamer  ! 

Tha*  proud  triumph  over  the  people  has  made  an  impression 
«pon  her  heart,  never  to  be  effaced  ! 

A  d  to  win  such  a  wife,  w/w  would  not  be  true  to  the  peopk  t 


h<jl 


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